Lovers of Legend
by katia1
Summary: Now complete! Things are looking dangerous for Syd and Nigel, who are on the trail of a precious artifact belonging to some famous historical lovers. Will it bring them together? Not before a little murder, kidnap and menace have ensued...
1. Chapter 1: rain

**Disclaimers: I don't own Sydney and Nigel, sadly, but since the TV companies aren't interested in playing with Syd and Nigel anymore, I thought I would. Please do not reproduce any of the story without my permission. Thank you.**

**Lovers of Legend**

**by Katy**

Professor Sydney Fox strode defiantly out of the British Library, not curbing her pace until she had crossed the forecourt and reached the edge of the Euston Road. Only then, standing under the brick gateway to the complex, did she concede that the persistent drizzle was turning into quite purposeful rain. She paused, pulled a neat black umbrella out of her shoulder bag, and shook it open with an aggression that was more appropriate for one wielding a lethal weapon.

'Sydney!' The professor turned and glared, although her anger was not really meant for the victim of her gaze. Her teaching assistant, Nigel Bailey, had caught up with her, having left the library, practically running, moments after her. Slightly out of breath, he opened his mouth to speak again but was silenced when Sydney got in first.

'Well, that was a complete waste of time! We're going straight back to the airport and getting the first flight back to the states. I just hope there aren't any more delays.'

Nigel hesitated for a second, unsure which case to plea first, or whether it was wise to challenge Sydney at all in the temper she was in. He would certainly like to spend more than one frenetic day 'at home' before dashing back to the U.S.A. Whether the cause of their trip was a waste of time or not, there was plenty of research in London they could usefully spend time. Moreover, there were special places – quiet gardens, neglected museums, and moonlit walks - that he would have liked to have revisited and was secretly looking forward to sharing with his 'boss'. But, more to the point, he was not so sure that the meeting Sydney had just stormed out of was quite so unsuccessful.

'Syd, I'm sorry, but…but…I think that Tadman – whoever he was - might have been onto something.'

Sydney was striding off down the road now, her eyes darting out across the traffic, scanning for an unengaged cab. Hearing this, however, she paused and turned her head towards her now somewhat rain-soaked assistant.

'Really? But that key letter, the one from the Count, it was so obviously a forgery.'

'Yes, but that second one. I think it was real. And I think the locket does exist, but it belonged to different set of historical lovers.'

……………

Sydney and Nigel had been summoned to England by a conman.

The alleged 'Dr Tadman' had contacted Sydney purporting to be a lecturer at a London university. He had used authentic i.d. and details that could not have just been stolen off the website. More pertinently, he sent scans of documents that seemed to point to the whereabouts of a pure, 5 carat diamond that was said to have been given by Marie Antoinette to her greatest love, Count Von Fersen. The diamond was embedded into the front of a weighty, but extremely beautiful locket, known, apparently, as the _San Josef_.

Although initially she sensed a scam, Sydney had become carried away enough with the apparent authenticity of the evidence, consisting of a letter from the Count himself authorising, rather unromantically, the sale of the diamond. This had been faxed to her from England, with the promise of more such compelling documents if she met with Tadman in London.

He also sent, guaranteeing her interest, a tantalising letter recently sent to Tadman himself, who was a renowned historian of modern European history, at least according to his credentials. This claimed that the jewel had emerged and been put on the black market by an unsavoury trader, known by name but not by appearance to Sydney, called Bellimo. The man claiming to be Tadman had thus claimed to contact her for obvious reasons. It would not take much for a world class Relic Hunter to locate the current whereabouts of the diamond and snatch it from under the noses of the 'bad guys.' They could then place a priceless and fascinating relic from one of history's most fascinating queens back in a museum where it could be admired and studied by all.

On meeting Tadman, who was a sturdily built man in his late 30s, with greying blonde hair and piercing sea-green eyes, the story had apparently fallen apart. The letter from Von Ferson was, to the trained eye, unauthentic: the handwriting was well-done, but the paper was obviously modern. A pathetic attempt had been made to make it look old, which could convince on the scan, but did not do so in real life. Moreover, halfway through the interview, a disturbing e-mail came through from Karen informing her that Dr. Tadman was _not_ Dr. Tadman. After so many set-ups, Sydney had decided to play it safe and had requested a photo of the lecturer from his university. Rather tardy with their response, it only came through after they had left Trinity University, and Karen had sent it as soon as she could.

The message flashed up on Sydney's screen, unobserved by Tadman, as Nigel, also unconvinced by the Von Fersen letter, began to quiz him about a further piece of evidence. This was a government document stating that a woman named Emmeline Hart had reported a locket stolen in early 1815, in Calais, France, which answered to the same description, and was inscribed on the back with the words _San Josef_. However, once Sydney read the warning email, she had no more time for their new companion. He was obviously just a crook who wanted her to find a pricey diamond that would turn out to have no historical significance. He no doubt ultimately intended to double cross her and disappear with the jewel. She stood up abruptly, grabbing Nigel by the arm and pulling him up with her, causing him to break off midsentence.

'This isn't Dr Tadman, Nigel. He's no academic - just some crook. I bet he couldn't even get a readers ticket for this place. Let's go.'

Tadman looked alarmed. Nigel pulled his arm away and looked from the other man to his boss in confused trepidation. 'But Syd…Dr Tadman… the second letter, it's …'

'Let's go, Nigel!' said Sydney, and swept out of the coffee shop towards the escalator.

Nigel, then, didn't get to finish the sentence until he was rushing up the street after her in the rain. Water was now dripping off his hair and down his face, making him look rather bedraggled, but finally he had Sydney's attention.

'I'm listening,' said Syd, whose stony countenance was suddenly brightened by a giggle. 'Why are you standing in the rain? You look like a drowned rat! Why don't you come under the umbrella?'

Nigel obeyed, shuffling right under the canvas, very close to Sydney so he could feel her breath on his cheek and the warmth of her curves. He then took an abrupt step back: the rain now ran down the back of his neck, but he felt somewhat safer. That had been too close!

He took a deep breath, and began to plea his cause: 'The first document, that was rubbish, I agree. Besides, it is unlikely Von Ferson would have sold such an heirloom, if it had ever existed. He suffered from his association with the French queen, but his family were always wealthy. However…..the second document, I think was authentic. I _have_ heard a legend of the _San Josef_ diamond. It's just that it never belonged to Marie Antoinette, it belonged to Lady Emma Hamilton, the lover of Admiral Lord Nelson. And - this is the clincher - she died in poverty in Calais in 1815. It is very likely, if such diamond did exist, and she never sold it or lost it at gambling, she would have had it with her until she died. Just before you…er…left, he was telling me that he had further documentation that showed she had the locket returned to her. Surely she then put it somewhere safe before she died. It wouldn't be easy to find. But if _anybody _could do it...you could.'

Sydney looked momentarily thoughtful. 'There might be something in that…I knew _San Josef_ rang a bell, but I thought it was all part of the hoax…but, I'm not sure I want to take this any futher, Nigel. That isn't Dr. Tadman. The university sent a picture of an older guy, in his late 50's. One letter in the possession of a conman is just too tenuous a lead…'

'We've chased after less convincing evidence, Syd! Remember Claudia's 'vision' of Cleopatra's necklace?'

'That was thoroughly convincing. And it worked!'

'Well…I'm convinced now,' pleaded Nigel. 'Lord Nelson was always a hero of mine, and, well…his love for Lady Hamilton was one of history's great romances. Finding this would make so many more people interested in their story… Let's just stay and look into it, just for a day. Please, Syd.'

Sydney surveyed her associate, who had backed further out from under the brolly. His soaking wet shirt was beginning to stick to his back and arms. It clung to a rather nice, shapely little body, she mused, before snapping her attention back to the matter in hand. She slipped her arm through his, pulling him back under the umbrella and leading him on up the street.

'Okay, Nigel. I'm not quite convinced but let's find somewhere dry for coffee, then let's see if you can induce me to stay.'

Nigel grinned. 'I'll do my utmost, Syd.'


	2. Chapter 2: coffee and kidnap

**Disclaimers as before.**

**Please read and review. Thanks.**

By the time he had reached his second cup of coffee, Nigel had both won his battle, and started to lose it again.

His knowledge of the _San Josef _diamond was based on Nelson's dispatches, which he had studied at length in his spare time. He hoped to publish a paper on them some day. After the Battle of the Nile, Nelson had asked George III expressly for a fine diamond, then considered one of the most beautiful in the world, which he himself had captured for the Crown in an earlier skirmish in which he had taken the French ship _San Josef_. Only rumour remained beyond that, but the diarists and letter writers of the age had spoken of a beautiful locket, worn by Nelson's illicit love Lady Hamilton, which was said to sparkle like starlight itself. The _San Josef_ locket was said to contain several strands of Nelson's hair, intertwined with her own.

Most of poor Emma Hamilton's possessions were sold when she fell deep into debt, an outcast to society, after Nelson's death. The lovers had both been married to other people, and while the whole nation revered the sea captain as their hero, his one true love, and his relationship with her, were shunned and forgotten. The locket never came to light, even though its value was so great it could have solved many of her problems. It was said that it vanished, with her, into a pauper's grave in northern France.

This story could not have failed to ignite Sydney's passion. However, she baulked at Nigel's suggestion that they meet with the alleged 'Dr Tadman' again. Indeed, she was rather angry to find out that Nigel had not entirely 'burned his bridges' in that department. After she had unceremoniously left Nigel had, albeit briefly, been congenial and apologetic. He had even taken a contact phone number from Tadman, promising to get in touch.

'If we do this, Nigel, we do it without that conman.'

'But he had the Calais letter! And he hinted he might have more. He's our only real lead.'

'Well, there is the letter from Bellimo. That's a name I know - and hate! Besides, he tends to skulk in France. We could try tracking him down, see what he and his goons have to say. If the locket itself is real - and this isn't just a mere diamond scam - he might still have it. We do it without Tadman. And that's the end of it. '

Nigel sighed, but said no more. Jetlag was starting to wear them both down. Sydney stretched her arms back behind her head, yawning, letting her loose hair tumble in silky bundles down her back.

'We'll head to France tomorrow, then. I'll book us into a hotel, and call Karen to see if any of our contacts know anything about the locket. Can you head back to the library and see what you can find?'

No time to pop home, then, thought Nigel, ruefully. Sydney smiled at him, as she put on her jacket. God, she was beautiful. He felt better already. Maybe there would be time for one of those romantic moonlit walks along the Thames, he thought. If only it stopped bloody raining!

……….

Nigel found nothing at the library. He ordered several manuscripts up from Special Collections, which took over an hour to arrive, but all was in vain. At 7 p.m., he was heading back to his locker to check his phone for messages from Sydney or Karen, when he felt a tentative tap on his shoulder. Turning round, he saw the man who purported to be Dr Tadman.

'Dr. Bailey. I'm so glad to have found you again.'

Nigel was flustered, and avoided the obvious topic of what had happened earlier when he gave his immediate reply. 'Um…well, I'm afraid it's not Dr…yet. It will be soon! If I ever find time to write-up my thesis in between all these relic hunts.'

'Dr. or not, you saw through the fake... and spotted the real letter. That's more than your boss did. Nobody can have a reputation like hers and not be overrated, I suppose. '

This ignited Nigel's ire. Who did this man think he was? Nobody denigrated Sydney in front of him and got away with it.

'Now, see here! I don't know who you are, but you certainly aren't who you claim to be. Both of us knew the Von Ferson letter was a fake the moment we saw it in real life. And if Sydney didn't instantly know the story of the _San Josef _locket, it was not because she isn't the best, but because even the best can't remember absolutely everything in an instant. Besides, European history isn't her specialist topic, and all historians have specialisations. Sydney has more than most. If you were a real academic you'd know that!'

'I'm sorry, Mr Bailey. It's just that Professor Sydney didn't hear me out earlier, and I was a little upset. I was going to explain everything.'

Nigel paused. He didn't trust this man, but he also was desperate to know what else he knew about the locket. Anyway, the other man couldn't do anything too rash here in the library locker room. One or two late readers were still about, collecting their belongings.

'Okay. I'm listening.'

'I am an academic, a historian. My name is Dr Wildey? Does that mean anything to you?'

Nigel shook his head.

'I thought not,' said Wildey, grimly. 'Good job, I suppose. You've been out of the country. If you had been here, you would know that I'm a disgrace. I was on the verge of publishing a wonderful book, the most revealing history book ever. It was an expose of the inner and emotional life of Nelson and Lady Hamilton, based upon her own, her very own account, written in her unschooled and honest prose. I was already dreaming of selling the movie rights!'

'What happened?' inquired Nigel, glancing over his shoulder to check that there were still other people around. He didn't trust this shifty fellow yet.

'My source, it vanished. Or rather, my access to it ceased, and I had no way of proving that it ever existed. Unfortunately, I had already told so many people about it, showing them drafts, even publishing papers, that they all thought I was, at best, a clown, at worst a liar.'

'Bad luck,' said Nigel bluntly. He was very unsure about where this story was going.

'Here's the thing. The text belongs to a nice little old man, friend of my mums, who lived in Rouen, Normandy. He wanted to keep it until his death, but he bequeathed it to me in his will. I go out to France last year, looking to check on my references, get to his house, and - lo and behold - the poor old bugger's dead. No sign of book or will.'

'The death wasn't from natural causes, then?'

'Made to look like it! I have my doubts. Then this Bellimo guy gets in touch with me, claiming the text is a code which reveals the whereabouts of this blasted diamond. He says I can have it back, and thus my career and reputation, if I crack it. Well I'm no good with codes. So, he says, get someone who it is! Get Sydney Fox! So here I am.'

'If what you say is true, why didn't you just come clean to us?'

'Nobody else believed me. Why should you? Besides, I knew that the Marie Antoinette letter might get me so far, and then…' Wildey paused suddenly, and then continued. 'Anyway, I didn't find the genuine letter until after I'd sent for you both. I pulled it out only yesterday in a library in Calais. I was going to apologise for the fake and explain, but your boss never gave me a chance.'

The story was so far-fetched, and had so many holes in it, that Nigel barely knew how to begin to respond. He gaped at Wildey for a moment, then turned round and started to pull his things out of the locker. There was nobody about anymore, and he wanted to get out of there.

'Look,' said Nigel, furtively glancing up at Wildey, '…you should have come clean earlier. You lied and lied. I'll tell Professor Fox your story – for what it's worth - but I can't promise we'll help beyond that.' He pulled his rucksack onto his shoulders, and was halfway to the door when Wildey ran in front of him and blocked the exit, standing over him with a half impish, half leering grin on his roguish face.

'Excuse me, Dr Wildey!'

'Look, let me show you my research. I know I don't have the evidence anymore, but when you read it, you'll want to help me, you really will!'

'I don't think I will.'

'But if my source is real – and it is - aren't you just a little curious about the passionate life of one of England's greatest heroes! Believe me, Nelson was a great lover as well as a great hero. Reading Emma's text taught me one or two things that have worked with the ladies.'

Nigel was surprised himself by his firmness of will. 'If you think you can convince me to read your _own_ sordid fantasies… well, I'm not that kind of person…' Nevertheless, he was curious. What if it _was_ real? And what would it be like, finding and reading this wonderful treasure, with his own Professor Fox? It would be embarrassing, yes, but maybe also…something else. He tried to suppress the lurch of excitement he felt in the pit of his stomach.

'The text is in my bag… it's in the cloakroom on the other side of the building. Go on, you won't regret it, and it might help you more than me if you decide to go after the diamond…or the ladies!'

By now, Nigel had pushed his way past and was heading towards the escalator. His curiosity, however, was getting the better of him. Not committing himself to anything, he let Wildey overtake him, and followed him across the forecourt, out of the front door and around the side of the complex. The street was dark here, but he barely noticed. His mind was now entirely caught up with the immortal love of Nelson and his Emma, which was strangely intertwining itself with visions of himself and his attractive boss. The notion that he never knew there was a cloakroom around here before didn't drift into his mind until just before the large black Mercedes pulled up beside him. By then, it was too late.

'Sorry, mate,' said Wildey, as Nigel was seized bodily and bundled into the car, by a burley chap in a suit, before he could even protest. 'You played right into my hands. But, then, I hoped you would. It pays to be a good researcher.'

Wildey gestured at the car as it drove off, and then trudged off into the London night.


	3. Chapter 3: things get nasty

**Disclaimer: as usual, I don't own the characters out of Relic Hunter.**

**I apologise for having Nigel kidnapped. I just couldn't help myself. I'll be relatively gentle… probably. Please review and I may modify my actions accordingly!**

Before he had time to protest, Nigel found himself flung forward across the back seat of the car, landing with his face in the lap of another burley, suited man. After the first man had slammed the door he began to pull off Nigel's rucksack, and so his arms became tangled behind him. This meant that the historians first line of resistance was to kick his legs randomly and wildly, hoping he might catch his aggressor somewhere painful, and to lift his head up to yell out. Surely they'd get stuck in a traffic jam soon, and somebody might hear?

Unfortunately, before this plan had been in operation from more than a couple of seconds, the rucksack was off, and he heard the click of a barrel and felt the cold steel of a pistol pointed into the small of his back.

'Don't try anything, Nigel. Just sit up, and don't make a sound. We know that your professor will still come for you, even if she only has the faintest hope that you're alive. And she wouldn't know that you're dead until she is in our hands.'

Nigel did as he was told, and found himself settled between the two men in the middle of the backseat. The first man, who was bald with a snub nose and tiny mouth, facial features far too small for his enormous head and body, jammed the pistol uncomfortably into his captor's side. The second thug, who had long hair like a biker, a look which didn't really accompany the slick suit he was wearing with much style, kept on grinning down at Nigel. He looked incredibly pleased with himself.

Betwixt his general panic, Nigel couldn't help but feel silly about having been kidnapped in London of all places. This is where he should have been able to take the lead, show Sydney something she didn't know. Impress her, maybe. And now? At best, she was going to have to rescue him again. And at worst? He could well imagine many worst-case scenarios.

He had been trying to keep absolutely still - the best thing to do with a gun in your side - but these thoughts triggered in Nigel an involuntary shudder. The second guy, the hairy one, had just turned his head away and begun staring out of the window at the southern inner suburbs of the city, but now turned back towards him and laughed.

'Scared? Surely you're used to this by now? I'm surprise you don't have permanent police protection, kid.'

Nigel stared resolutely ahead of him. Why do people always know all about him, and what he and Sydney had got up to? He hoped this wasn't going to get humiliating.

'He thought,' the guy went on, indicating his accomplice with his head 'that this would be difficult, and maybe that she didn't let you out of her sight these days. I mean, grabbing you, to get at her, has become a bit of a cliché, hasn't it?'

It occurred to Nigel that this conversational turn gave him the opportunity to try and find out about where he was being taken, and why. These guys were big, and armed, but no doubt they were none too bright. A little bit of information might give him a bargaining tool. No knowledge could be a bad thing, and they had to stop driving sooner or later. If he could convince them that he was willing to collaborate, they might let down their guard, giving him an opportunity to escape. 'Was that what Syd would do?' he though. No exact answer was forthcoming.

He licked his lips nervously, but decided to start on a defiant note. 'Me and Syd winning in the end, that's what I like to think of as the cliché,' said Nigel, regretting the words even as he said them. The bald man jammed the pistol barrel hard into his stomach. The hairy guy, however, was obviously still in a talkative mood and laughed.

'Well, I'm afraid that's not going to happen this time. But if you're very good boy indeed - and your dear professor is a very good girl - you might live to fight another day.'

Nigel ventured a question. 'What do you want us for, anyway? Something to do with that bloody locket I suppose?'

'How perceptive. That other historian had been looking at the book for months, and didn't even have a glimmer of an idea there were any clues within it. He was clueless about how to help Bellimo find the locket, even with a certain amount of…persuasion. The best he could do to save his ass was call in you guys '

'How do you know that there's a clue in the book? And that it leads to the locket?'

No answer came, just a smirk.

'Where are we going?'

'Shut up!' The bald guy had obviously had enough chitchat. H accompanied his words by thwacking Nigel with the pistol on the side of the face. It was not enough to cause any real damage, but hard enough to sting nastily and leave a bruise. That was enough inquiring for now.

Nigel glanced mournfully out of the window as the car glided through the outer suburbs. Homely houses, pebble-dashed semi-detached and then large mock Tudor, slipped by. It was so much like where he had grown up, he ought to be safe here. He knew he was far from that.

………………….

Back at the British library, Sydney was predictably frantic. Nigel had not called or answered any messages. The whole building was shutting up now, so she grilled the security staff and librarians as they left.

She had little luck. There had been hundreds of grad students and academics there that afternoon. Two of the female librarians remembered a young man of his description - it seems he had shared a bashful smile with one of them, and a few flirtatious words with the other, as he gave back the manuscripts. Neither, however, had seen any more of him after that.

She was about to demand access to the CCTV, when a voice summoned her from the shadows around the side of the building.

'Professor Fox!'

Sydney froze. She remembered that voice from earlier. It was Tadman… or whoever he was. With one swift action, she had him pinned to the wall, her arm against his neck, restricting his breathing.

'Tell me when Nigel is, or I'll crush your oesophagus!'

'Really, Professor Fox!' wheezed Wildey. 'I honestly didn't know they'd take him. They said that for me to persuade you to search for the locket was enough.'

Sydney did not loosen her hold. Wildey gasped and tried again. 'I didn't realise he was in any real danger. I tried to stop them, but there were too many.'

'Who took him? Bellimo?'

'Uh huh. Look, we've got to work together now. I can help you rescue Nigel.'

Sydney loosened her hold, just a little. Like her assistant before her, she did not trust this man one little bit.

'They want me to find the locket in exchange for him?'

'Well, yes… not that I'm working with them, but I expect so. And I do know where they are, you know.'

Sydney re-strengthened the force against her captor's neck, and growled. Wildey, despite his discomfort, founded it strangely feline and sexy.

'Why should I believe a word you say? You are obviously a consummate liar!'

'I straightened it all out with Nigel…here, before he was taken. He believed me, and I know you will once you've heard. Just give me a chance!'

Unfortunately, Sydney knew that this crook was currently her best lead. So she listened as he told her a story, somewhat similar to that which he had told Nigel only a few hours earlier. Small details were different, but he had already spun such a web of confusion and lies that he barely remembered what he'd told who.

'So, I'm supposed to believe you're just an academic who wants his source back?'

'It's the truth! Please, Professor Fox, the sooner we can get to France the sooner we can sort this out. These are nasty, violent people. Who knows what they could do to your assistant? It would be a shame if anything happened to that nice-looking young man.'

'If I even suspect for a moment that you're going to double cross me, you're a dead man,'

said Sydney. She knew as she said it that he was probably already double crossing her, but what else could she do?

'I won't, Professor Fox. I just want my book back, and for your assistant to be safe. And if we find that locket… hey, it's a bonus.'

Sydney hailed a cab, which took them straight to Waterloo. They bought tickets for the Eurostar, and were in Paris by just after midnight.

**Thanks for reading. More soon! Please review. Katy.**


	4. Chapter 4: things get worse

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sydney and Nigel etc.**

**Warning: this gets a bit angsty…**

As the train sped through the night, Wildey had convinced Sydney that they should head straight for Rouen, where the book had been stolen from. He had apparently first encountered Bellimo and his gang when he arrived there to find the old man dead, and his great source gone.

Sydney reluctantly agreed that this was their best shot, for now. She was desperately hoping to hear something that meant he no longer had to stick with this untrustworthy man. After all, if this really was a kidnap intended to induce her to do something, surely she would hear from the perpetrators of the crime soon? Fortunately the train was relatively quiet. She managed to get a seat to herself, behind Wildey, and was able to send some e-mails out to Karen telling her what had happened, where she was going, and asking her to contact Cate.

On arriving in Paris, Sydney was keen to get the first possible train up to Rouen in the North. Unfortunately, however, nothing ran until 6 a.m. It was too late to try and get hotel rooms, and attempting to sleep on the busy station was impossible. Eventually, Wildey persuaded her to accompany him to a shabby all-night bar. It was a sad shadow of the many more beautiful Parisian cafes. In it was hung faded and fraying red velvet décor. He promptly ordered two single malt whiskies.

Wildey was rebuffed by the barman. They only served brandy: Cognac or Armagnac? He ordered two Armagnacs and then sat down at a small, wobbly table next to Syd.

'Bloody French,' said Wildey taking a swig and then wincing as the force of the alcohol hit him. 'They obviously just can't take real liquor.'

Sydney raised her eyebrows. God, this guy was arrogant. 'I prefer brandy. It's so much smoother, and just as potent.'

'You would, you're a woman,' Wildey ventured to move his face a little closer to Sydney's, so she could smell the brandy on his breath and see the speckled brown in his sea-green eyes. The said eyes moved down towards her cleavage. It was visible as ever in her low-cut, tightfitting black top, which she wore beneath her leather jacket. 'And, may I add, you're an incredibly beautiful woman.'

Sydney's jaw dropped, even as she forcibly pushed his leering face away from hers. She couldn't believe the gall of this guy.

'You can clear those thoughts out of your mind right now, you pathetic wretch. This is _not_ a date.' Sydney downed the brandy in one, and started to the door. 'I'm going back to the station.'

'Alright, alright, just being friendly,' murmured Wildey as he followed her out of the door. All the while he eyed her backside, clad in black trousers as figure-hugging as her top, much as a crocodile might observe its next meal.

……………….

During the time this little contretent was taking place, Nigel and Sydney had only been a few miles apart, although this fact was unbeknownst to either. Nigel, indeed, had been flying over the outskirts of Paris in a small jet which was taking him south. 'To God knows where,' thought Nigel miserably to himself.

The previous few hours had been grim. Just after the houses in suburban London had turned into country lanes, they had pulled up in a barely lit side road and he had been bundled out of the car as unceremoniously as he had entered it. The fearsome thought flashed into his head that they were just going to shoot him and leave him in the ditch, dead or dying. Struck with a sudden desperate panic, he struggled as hard as he could to free himself of the two, large men's grip. Having successfully kicked both of them several times, and rather hard, he felt the side of the pistol barrel hit the back of his head. The blow was harder this time, and Nigel fell to his knees, his head slumped forward, and his arms raised instinctively to protect him from further assaults. The fighter in him had gone. He saw nothing but black before his eyes - dark though it was, it wasn't that dark - and he was worried he was going to be sick.

They tied his hands together, placed a gag over his mouth, and dumped him in the boot of the car.

The car had driven on a little further, but not far. Then he had heard the two men, and the driver, get out of the car and walk away. They had left him there for what seemed like hours. His head hurt like hell, he felt nauseous, and he could barely breathe. Every now and again there was a terrifying roaring noise. The first time it came, Nigel thought it was an enormous truck rushing towards the car, about to hit and smash him into oblivion. His heart, already racing as if he was running a marathon, beat so hard that he thought it might explode. But the roaring passed, and after a couple more similar incidents, he realised he was probably parked near, or in, an airport.

By the time the boot was opened, he was gasping for air. He found himself leaning weakly - how he hated himself for it - on the bald man with the gun, who thrust the weapon back in Nigel's side exactly where he had left off. He was relatively relieved, however, when the hairier man, who seemed marginally kinder, removed the gag.

It was now obvious that they were on a small airstrip, and a tiny, executive jet in front of them was preparing for its flight. Security here was much less stringent than in the major airports, but he supposed they had locked him in the boot just so as not to arouse any suspicion. Glancing about, he figured this was probably an old World War II airstrip. From the direction they had driven out of London, he guessed it was probably Biggin Hill. How ironic that this airport, from which men had flown in the Battle of Britain, often to meet untimely ends, was now the one from which he was seemingly to depart to an unfortunate fate, and probably to far less glory.

One up in the jet, Nigel realised just how cold he was. On his top, he was still only wearing the thin cotton shirt that had clung to him in the rain when he was talking to Sydney earlier. How long ago that seemed now! In the boot of the car he was far too worried about trying to breathe, and being pulverised by a truck, to notice that he was also freezing. Now, with his hands still tied together, he huddled himself into a small corner at the back of the jet - nobody had offered him a seat - and he tried to keep himself as warm as possible.

The bald man sat not far off, eyeing Nigel with beady, piggy, little eyes, keeping the gun trained more or less in his direction. Nigel shut his eyes and tried to think about other things: Sydney, Claudia, Cate, Karen… everyone he knew, they would all be looking for him. They'd find him soon, he told himself. Then he thought about Ancient Studies. There was a reason he picked it as his specialisation: it had got him into trouble, but not as much of a mess as this modern European history rubbish now had! In the future he'd stick to what he was best at. Eventually though, he allowed himself to think of Sydney, and Sydney alone. Her beautiful hair, her glorious body… and the lovely way her bottom wiggled when she ran….

He was aroused from his attempt at mental escape when he felt somebody place a blanket, or something like it, around his shoulders. Looking wearily up, he saw the guy with the long hair standing over him, still smirking at him, but apparently not with any violent malice. 'You're shivering. I thought this might help.'

Nigel saw that the man had placed his own flight jacket around his shoulders. 'Thanks,' he murmured, but he did not favour the man with any eye contact. He had just become a little worried that this guy may be threatening to him in quite a different way to his fat, bald friend.

……………….

After over two hours in the air, the jet landed. The airstrip they arrived at was practically deserted and even smaller than the English one they had left. In fact, it looks barely used. A derelict jet lay on the grass not far off the runway, and there was nobody about, apart from a man in a car with a French number plate parked nearby. He was obviously waiting to take them away. Early morning cicadas were singing in the grass and bushes, so Nigel knew he was somewhere in the south of the country, near the Mediterranean.

Despite all his worries, aches and pains, what was really concerning Nigel by now was the matter that he was desperate to go to the bathroom. This was now getting urgent. He expressed it as so to the guy who had lent him his jacket as he helped him down from the jet.

'We've got at least an hour's drive from here, kid. You'll have to go in the bushes.'

'It'll do,' mumbled Nigel. The man accompanied him over to near the shrubbery about 50 metres from the edge of the runway. Fortunately, he stopped short and untied Nigel's hands, allowing him a small amount of privacy in the foliage. Nigel finished his business quickly, and was about to come back out - there was little point running away as he knew the gun was still trained upon him - when something heavy in the pocket of the jacket, which was still draped around his shoulders, hit against his hand.

His heart leapt, as he fumbled in the pocket. It was a cell phone, he knew it was. He only had a matter of seconds, so he dialed the first number which came to mind: Karen's, at the office. It rung, but there was no answer, and it clicked to answer phone. Knowing this was his chance, Nigel suddenly threw himself to his knees. Now completely out of sight, but with the men approaching fast he whispered quickly into the phone: 'Karen, its Nigel. I'm in the South of France. A small airstrip somewhere, with a derelict jet. There's some guy named Bellimo involved…'

He hung up, and stuffed the phone back in the pocket milliseconds before he came into the vision of the two men. 'I slipped… I don't feel that great,' pleaded Nigel, as he was hauled, roughly to his feet.

When the phone fell out of his pocket, and landed with a soft thud on the ground, he knew he was in trouble.

**Well, that was harsher than I meant to be! Should I be kinder? Please review! More chapters will be up very soon. Thanks for reading.**


	5. Chapter 5: castles and basements

**Disclaimer: As Before.**

**Roxie and Tanja: thanks for the reviews. Glad you're enjoying it.**

Sydney did her best to catch some sleep on the train up to Rouen. There were enough people about for her to feel fairly confident that Wildey would not try anything too rash. Even so, she drifted off only momentarily, now and then.

She had never been to Rouen, and when she arrived there she realised it was an amazing place. There were streets and streets of tall, mediaeval houses, timber framed and with intricate carvings depicting everything from birds and flowers to sinister gargoyles. Heading straight to the last place that Wildey had last met with Bellimo or so he claimed - they passed through a square with a very strange shaped, modern church. It was a great contrast to the ancient buildings that Sydney had previously been admiring.

'This is the site where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake by the English,' said Wildey smugly.

'That's right,' murmured Sydney, with recognition. 'The roof of the church is supposed to resemble the flames of her pyre. Poor woman!'

'Well, she must've been a fool to take on such formidable forces. Did she really think she could lead an army to victory against the English? She must've been misguided,' he shot Sydney a probing glance. She caught his meaning

'She was a brave young woman, with vision. She was betrayed,' Sydney retorted. 'In the end, her destiny was out of her hand, but her legend will live on forever.'

'Come on, let's go,' said Wildey. The fate of Joan of Arc seemed to be inspiring rather than subduing Sydney.'

'Wait,' said Sydney. 'I need to check my messages. I haven't done it since I was on the train.' Something moved in Wildey's eyes that made Sydney instantly suspicious. She rapidly searched her bag, and then her pocket. There was no blackberry!

The square was marginally busy, which was the only thing which prevented Syd from clobbering her companion there and then. 'Where is it, you sonofabitch!' she hissed.

'I really don't know,' said Wilde, in an attempt at sincerity. 'You had it on the train - it must have slipped out of your pocket while you slept.'

'Yeah, with your help!'

Sydney had no qualms about grabbing Wildey's bag and tipping out the contents on the pavement. When the blackberry was not forthcoming, she checked all his pockets, and felt as much of his person as she could bear, to confirm he didn't have it on him.

It wasn't there, but she was certainly not satisfied. 'I need to get to a pay phone, quick…. Damn, I only have euro notes and no coins.' She now knew that Wildey only had the same, as she had just been through his every belonging.

'Look, I know you don't trust me, but the old man's house, the one where I got the book, is just near here. I've got a key, and I'm sure the phone is still connected. We can go there and sort it all out.'

Sydney glared at him. If only she could get through to Karen, she might have another lead on Nigel and then she could leave this villain.

'Okay, but if you try anything…'

'Yes, you'll crush my oesophagus or something. I know, I know…'

…………………….

All things considered, Nigel got off rather lightly after it was realised he had made a call from the cellphone to the United States. The guy with the hair was far too concerned with the consequences of his carelessness, and what their boss might say, to do anything too drastic. 'You could have signed all our death warrants, you little fool,' he lamented gruffly, and then punched Nigel in the stomach, hard enough to leave him struggling for breath upon the ground.

When his bald accomplice raised the pistol to give their give their captor another dose, however, he blocked the blow.

'That won't help… look, Bellimo doesn't have to know about this. What could he have said? He doesn't even know where he is. I'll drive on with the kid… you and the pilot, fly over to another air strip… Italy, Germany, Spain, wherever. Take the phone somewhere else and dump it. If it's been traced, they can go there.'

'Yeah, after me! It's your mistake, no way.'

'He doesn't know which one of us gave the boy the jacket. Could of been either of us – it's your word against mine. And I have a nasty feeling he favours me these days…'

After this, the bald man seemed resigned his fate and went back to speak to the pilot. The other helped Nigel to his feet. In actuality, Nigel was perfectly capable of getting to his feet himself, but had decided that affecting agony a little longer than strictly necessary could do no harm. It could at least prevent the onset of any more. This practical streak in him had repressed the braver part of his soul, which had wanted to fight back and demonstrate, as forcefully as he could, that he was a man, not a boy. Right now, he knew this would be unwise. Still, he hoped he would get the chance sometime soon - preferably with Sydney's help in the fighting department!

For now, though, he had to put up with being pushed about and patronized. 'That was silly, Nigel,' said the remaining thug as he escorted him over to the car, 'but don't you worry. France is a big country, and we're not staying anywhere near this place for long.'

The man, who for the first time was addressed in named by the French driver of the car as 'Monsieur Bately,' was quite right. They drove for well over an hour, keeping mainly to deserted country lanes. Sitting in the back with Bately, who seem to have taken over proprietorship of the gun, Nigel was able to look out of the window, desperately searching for clues about where he was. Hope was fading, but maybe he would get another illicit chance to make a call or send a message, when they reached their destination. The roads winded through fields of fading sunflowers, and sometimes through vineyards. If there were any large towns that Nigel could have recognised nearby, they were certainly avoiding them. In the distance, however, were mountains. 'Maybe they were the Alps, or the Massive Centrale?' he wondered.

As they neared the mountains, the car veered off the road onto an unmade, and extremely bumpy, track. They were now proceeding along the bottom of a steep embankment, which seemed like a foothill to a much taller prominence. Looking up, Nigel noticed the contours of a ruined castle wall on the peak of the ridge, and the looming presence of a mediaeval keep protruding up behind. Soon the track began to wind up towards it. 'Great,' thought Nigel, and the thought popped into his head that Count Bellimo, in his castle in France, probably looked a lot like Count Dracula. At least it was historical!

……….

Several hundred miles further north, Sydney and Wildey had reached the old man's house. It was another of the tall, timber framed buildings that Sydney had been admiring, although it was not as well restored as many of the others. They reached the front by passing under an arch off the street, and into a courtyard. Here the houses leant ominously in towards them, each of the four floors jutting out above the other, so at the top they almost blocked out the light from the sky. The carvings were present here too. All around the top of the ground floor level of the buildings were engravings of crossed skulls and bones. Wildey said they were placed there after a great plague hit the city.

Sydney felt that she should be on her guard, more than ever.

They entered the house through a shallow door, above which was a small sign which said 'Brocante.' 'French for antiques,' Sydney made a mental note. The dark passage inside smelt of damp mixed with something rather more pungent and unpleasant.

'Where is the phone, Wildey,' demanded Sydney.

'Downstairs…'

Sydney looked suspicious. 'In the basement?'

'It's where the poor old chap had his office. He was an antique trader, you know.'

'Okay, but you go down first.'

'By all means.' Wildey opened a thick, arched door and switched on an electric light which revealed a spiraling descending staircase. It led into a windowless room with a vaulted stone roof. The only piece of furniture in it was a large Victorian desk with many drawers and covered with papers. On it was also a chunky, plastic 1970s telephone.

'There you go, Professor,' said Wildey. 'Dial away to your heart's content.'

Sydney moved into the room towards the table, while Wildey kept deadly still. It was only as she reached the phone itself, that he made his move, darting up the stairs like a rabbit who had heard a gunshot. Sydney, who had barely let her guard down, moved as fast as he did, but she had made the fatal error of letting herself get a few metres further from the door. He slammed it in her face. She heard the heavy lock click even as she rammed herself against the solid wood.

'You bastard, I bet you've got Nigel…' Sydney was furious, partially with herself for falling into the trap. 'Where is he? If you've laid a finger on him…'

'I haven't got him, my dear,' replied Wilde suavely but loudly from the other side of the door. 'I wish I did have. He must have been far less hard work to look after than you…'

'Don't bet on it,' said Sydney, half as a comfort to herself. She knew that her assistant had ingenuity, even if he wasn't always the most perceptive person at spotting dangers. He would do his best to gain the upper hand and escape if he could. Besides, he couldn't be in too much worse a spot than she was at the moment. Could he? She suppressed some disturbing thoughts.

'What's the game, then, Wildey? Are you in on it all with Bellimo?'

'Not exactly.'

'Why am I locked in here? Surely I'm supposed to find this darn relic.'

'Well, that _was_ the original plan. But the main thing which needs to be done is interpreting a text that leads to it. And having met with you… and your assistant, I decided maybe that he was the best man for that job.'

'We work best together.'

'Maybe. We might need _you_ to retrieve the locket once we know where it is. Or take over the text work, if he proves he's….not capable '

'I won't do a thing for you to until I see Nigel.'

'It's not in my hands, I'm afraid. I've really got to go, my sweetheart.'

'I am not your sweetheart!' yelled Sydney, as she heard his footsteps fade away, and the front door slam shut.

**Oh dear! How will there be romance with both of our heroes captured, and hundreds of miles apart? We'll see.**

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **

**Katy**


	6. Chapter 6: bodies

**Disclaimers: as before.**

As soon as she was left alone in the damp, stone vault Sydney entered into a whirl of activity. As could be predicted, the telephone had no dialing tone, so she dismantled it completely to see if there were any wires in it with which she could pick the lock. Sadly, the wires were either too small or thin, or made of rubber. None could have an impact on the heavy lock. Besides, Sydney realised it was rather futile. The door was thick oak and probably barred from the other side.

She then turned her attention to the large, old desk. Amongst the papers on the top, she didn't like what she found. They were several bills of sale for some extremely dodgy antique deals, in English and French, some of which had been made out in the name of Bellimo Brocante Ltd. She began to wonder if this house had ever belonged to the kindly, wronged old man she imagined at all.

Trying to open the drawers, she discovered that some of them were locked and some of them opened easily. Those which opened easily were filled with bottled water and tinned food. There was even a tin opener, an ominous sign that she was probably going to be left there for some time. The locked draws could not be opened with force, but she found that the wires which had had no impact on the sturdy door lock, could just about prize open these more feeble contraptions.

What she found inside instantly intrigued her. They were several large, A4 envelopes addressed to the house she was in, all to the name of Dr. Tadman. Could it be that the renowned academic was in on the plot after all? She was about to examine the contents of the packages when she heard the door upstairs open and heard voices, which seemed to be those of two men. She stuffed the envelopes in her bag, which fortunately she had been left with, and ran to the stairs in order to hear more. Could they be somebody who would let her out?

One of the voices clearly belonged to Wildey. Although she then knew that she was not going to be rescued, this did not dampen Sydney's hopes too much. She was immensely looking forward to crushing his oesophagus! She heard the other voice saying that he would be back shortly, and then Wildey saying sleazily that he wanted 'to say goodbye to his little vixen.'

'This is one little vixen with a nasty bite', thought Sydney.

She heard the front door close again as the other man left. Sure enough, moments later a key turned in the lock, and Wildey appeared in the doorway. This time he was obviously taking no risks, and he was armed with a gun. In the other hand he held a square, card shopping bag that looked like it came from an expensive boutique.

Sydney was just waiting for an opportunity to high-kick the gun from his hand and force from this crook everything he knew, in particular the whereabouts of Nigel. She suspected that the contents of the bag might just give her the chance she needed. Sydney Fox knew men, and she knew exactly what was on the mind of this creep.

'Ah, ma cherie!' said Wildey, the gun trained firmly on Sydney. 'I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you here for a little while… I hope not forever, but if we have no use for you that may just be your sad fate. However, I have been thinking of other applications for you… and if you oblige me, you may find that it works in your favour.'

'And what would you like me to do?' inquired Sydney, coyly. Wildey was a little taken aback. He hadn't expected her to be so immediately cooperative. He was suspicious, but he was also curious about what she was willing to do. He had heard stories about Sydney Fox, and that she had made a lot of men happy who probably did not deserve it.

He tossed down his package to her at the bottom of the stairs. 'Put this on, my dear,' he instructed. After a pause he added, 'You may find that pleasing me may soften the treatment of your young assistant.'

Sydney, forgetting the temptress routine for a second, gave Wildey a look that could have killed. 'I thought you said that was out of your control.' Wildey shrugged. Sydney picked up the bag, all the same.

As could be predicted, it contained some expensive silk lingerie, made of red lace with black borders. 'May I change behind the desk, please?' asked Sydney, without emotion.

'If you would like,' came the reply. Wildey still had the gun pointed in her direction. Sydney knew she was going to have to try hard to get him to let his guard down, and quietly sighed. 'And so the show begins', she thought.

From behind the desk, Sydney let Wilde see every item of her own clothing as she took them off. She dangled each piece out from the edges of the desk on a seductive, slender limb, and then flung them across the floor with a provocative flick of a wrist. 'All we need now is some tacky, strip show music!' the professor mused to herself.

Once as fully clad in the underwear as it was possible to be - it fortunately also included a black silk thigh-length camisole - she emerged slowly from behind the desk.

'Is this obliging enough for you?' She walked towards him slowly, her long legs snaking around one in front of the other.

'Yes..yes.' His eyes were transfixed on her, and he was clearly excited.

She slunk towards him, slowly and enticingly, until she was just under a metre away and then she stopped. 'Any second now,' predicted Syd to herself.

It all happened quickly. Wildey took a small step forward and reached out his hand to touch her. Before he could lay a finger, Syd had kicked the gun from his hand. A moment later they were back where they were outside the British library, as she slammed her nemesis back against the wall, pinning his throat with her arm.

This move, however, was slightly too successful. The ancient wall was very rugged and uneven, and Wilde hit his head hard against protruding stone. Rather than begging for mercy, he flopped sideways, unconscious.

'Damn,' said Syd. She needed information more than anything. Still, she hoped he would come round soon, and then she would coerce him to tell her all she needed to know.

She stripped off the lingerie in a fraction of the time it had taken her to put it on, and used it to firmly tie his feet and wrists together. Gathering up her scattered clothes, she swiftly dressed herself and ran up the stairs, bolting the strong wooden door from the outside and turning the key in the lock.

It was then that the smell, which she had briefly noticed on her way into the house, struck her fully. She now recognised that horrific odour, and knew that it was not just mustiness. Along the corridor was another, more flimsy wooden door, outside which the stench was even stronger. It was locked, but the portal was flimsy compared to that which had

Thrusting herself into the room behind, Sydney nearly gagged at the stench. It took little time to her to identify the source. Slumped forward in a tatty, leather swivel chair was the body of a man with wild, grey hair. Covering her mouth with her sleeve, the professor ventured forward and pushed the cadaver gently back by the shoulder, so she could see his face. Although she had only once seen it before, briefly in an e-mail, she knew who it was instantly.

'Dr Tadman!' she gasped.

On a brief examination, she could see that he'd probably been dead for a couple of days. His face was a grayish, green colour and the body was quite stiff. The cause of death was not hard to identify. There had been a single gunshot to the heart.

Sydney was now momentarily torn about what to do next. She desperately needed to go for backup and contact Karen, but could she risk leaving the body, and Wildey in the basement, knowing that his gang could return and whisk all away.

This dilemma was not open to her for long. She heard the click of the front door, and footsteps and voices coming up the passage.

'Why couldn't he let us watch him have his fun?' she heard a deep, gruff voice say.

'Why couldn't you take just a little bit longer?' thought Sydney.

Her foot made contact with the jaw of the first henchman before he even knew what was hurtling at him. However, as she pounded the second man against the wall, three others ran in, two of whom had guns.

'Oh shit,' thought Sydney. She knew even she was outnumbered and out-armed.

Speed was her only chance. In a flash, she kicked the gun from one of the thug's hand, and dived for the front door. The other goon shot wildly, but missed. Landing as gracefully as a springing gazelle, Sydney sprinted from the courtyard and out into the relative safety of the city streets.

**Sydney is free then! But what has been happening to Nigel? Please find out in the next chapter.**


	7. Chapter 7:brocante

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Warning: angst!**

It was late morning by the time Nigel and his unwelcome chaperone arrived at the castle. Once a palace and fortress of some significance, belonging to the Duke who had ruled over the region in the 14th century, it was still a formidable fortress. Erected in the high Gothic style, the gatehouse still boasted a fine, pointed arch, which on each side was embossed with the heraldry of long dead and forgotten families. Although the turrets of the gatehouse and the adjoining curtain wall were now crumbling, the keep still soared high behind, and was in remarkably good structural condition.

In ordinary circumstances, Nigel would have admired this remarkable sight. Like any specialist of his kind, he would have taken delight in identifying its typical architectural features and trying to find out as much as he could about its specific history.

But these were not ordinary circumstances. Nigel had barely slept for nearly forty-eight hours, what with his ordeal the night before and the previous disturbed, delayed flight from America, which had landed in the early hours of yesterday. He had not eaten or drunk, apart from the coffee he had with Syd and a few swigs of water allowed him by his captors, since the first meeting with Wildey in the British library. Coupled with his throbbing head, and slightly sore stomach, he really was not in the mood or condition to appreciate even the most rare and beautiful styling. He greeted the site chiefly with trepidation, although he could not suppress just a small spark of curiosity.

The car jolted under the gateway, over some of the smaller bits of rubble fallen from the walls, and pulled up outside the keep. A crumbling stone staircase led to a small entrance on the first floor.

'Come on, out you come,' ordered Bately, waving his gun. Nigel clambered out of the car, feeling slightly shaky.

'So this is where the king of the castle orders his pathetic minions around from, is it?' Despite everything, Nigel was getting heartily sick of being pushed around.

'There's no king here but me right now, boy,' jeered Bately, grabbing Nigel by the shoulder and shoving him on to the steps which led up to the keep door.

'Patronising git,' mumbled Nigel, quite audibly as he stumbled forward. Exaggerating his fall deliberately, he took the chance to furtively glance around him, assessing his chances of escape. From here, they did not look too bad. The curtain wall had completely disintegrated in places, making it easily scalable, and there was no portcullis or gate left in the entrance tower. If only he could get out of the keep, his prospects would be favourable. Picking himself up, however, he was faced with the looming prospect of the keep itself, towards which he was propelled by another sharp push from Bately. His heart sank. These places were built to be impenetrable and inescapable.

………………..

Sydney did not go straight to the police. She knew better than to trust their heavy-handed ways, especially in a country with which she was not absolutely familiar. Instead, she went to the best place to go in any city: the University.

In the history department of the University of Rouen, members of staff were both shocked and delighted to be honoured with the sudden presence of the great Professor Sydney Fox. She told them that she had lost her blackberry and was in urgent need of access to the Internet and the telephone. They happily obliged, and also insisted on buying her a much-needed lunch. She told them little of the rest of her story. This was an occasion when she realised she had to tell her own affairs only on a 'need to know' basis.

Karen and Cate had not rested for second, particularly since the former received Nigel's gabbled message, and soon after realised she had lost contact with Sydney. Cate had freed herself from other duties and boarded the first flight to France. She had followed Sydney to Rouen, frantically searching for any leads on Sydney's location. Meanwhile, her people at Interpol had opened some inquiries into Bellimo and Wildey, and the possible whereabouts of Nigel.

Of Wildey there was absolutely no trace. Indeed, it seemed he had never really existed. Bellimo was real enough, as Sydney has known before this adventure had started. Now she was pretty sure she had met him face-to-face, and left him in the basement, unconscious, not long ago.

Bellimo had lairs all over Europe, although there had been no record of the Rouen house to which Sydney had been taken. However, a gangster recently taken into Interpol's custody, who was known to have had contact with Bellimo, was induced to tell them that he believed the rogue trader had a base in a ruined castle 'somewhere in the South of France.' Nigel's call and description of the runway had been traced to a little used airstrip some miles from Avignon. With these two pointers, Cate and Sydney decided that was the best place to start looking, even though later, silent calls from the same phone had been made from Germany, Austria and Poland.

Sydney and Cate were reunited at the University. Sydney having extracted herself from several curious and adoring French academics and their questions is quickly as she could, they made their way back to the house where she had been imprisoned. Predictably, there was no sign of Bellimo, and Dr Tadman's body was gone. While Cate called colleagues to make inquiries about the late historian, Sydney suddenly remembered the documents she had founded the desk downstairs.

She pulled them out of her bag and perused them closely. She found they had been sent from the Calais archive, and they concerned the whereabouts of the locket. Sydney had long since ceased to care about finding this particular item; indeed, once she had lost Nigel nothing else mattered apart from her finding him as soon as possible. However, she was also still acutely aware that locating the locket may be the key to getting him back.

The purport of the papers, however, was not particularly helpful. The first, the opened envelope, was simply a duplicate of the original document that had interested Nigel, stating that Emmeline Hart had reported the locket stolen in Calais in early January, 1815. The second, which neither Tadman nor Bellimo had apparently read, was from later in the year. It reported that the locket had never been returned.

Sydney's heart sunk. Maybe Lady Emma Hamilton had died without ever having the locket returned? This seemed likely, as she had died that year, quite early on if Syd remembered correct. If the text needing interpreting had been written by Emma, it may simply lead to somewhere where she had intended to place the locket, but was never given a chance. Even if Nigel cracked any code correctly, the retriever of the locket may not find it, and then he could be in even more trouble.

Sydney knew she had to get to the south of France and find him as soon as possible. In less than three hours, thanks to Cate's power to commandeer a small plane, she was there and searching.

………………….

The first floor of the keep, into which Nigel was taken, resembled the most expensive jumble sale he had ever seen. At a brief glance, Nigel identified exquisite Louis XIV furniture, a sculpture surely by Canova, and several well-known stolen masterpieces including ones by da Vinci and Caravaggio. Nothing had been treated with respect. The works of art were piled together, unprotected by coverings, in the damp and grime.

'What pathetic philistines would leave priceless treasures like this?' he retorted with disgust. 'I know you're only interested in value, but surely you've got brains enough to know they'll fetch more money in good condition?'

'Funnily enough, buyers on the black market don't tend to get a moneyback guarantee,' said Bately with a dark chuckle. 'They don't tend to complain. And I suggest you should keep your opinions to yourself too, my friend, or it'll be your condition you're worrying about.' He raised his hand threateningly. Nigel continued to look appalled, but did not argue.

Nigel's accommodation was reached up a spiral staircase and was basic, to say the least. Probably an old guard chamber, it had stone walls, ceiling and floor and only a tiny window slit, with a built-up sill, just large enough for arrows to be fired out of. In one corner was a threadbare mattress and in the other the opening to a small adjoining chamber, with no doors.

'That's your ensuite bathroom facilities,' sneered Bately. Nigel had no doubt that the small opening lead to a mediaeval guarderobe: a primitive water closet, jutting out over the walls.

On the windowsill was a large, red wine-coloured leather bound book and by it paper and a pencil. 'There's your assignment, then. You better get on with it.'

'Now hold on just one minute', exclaimed Nigel. He may have been shattered, but he was not going to meekly obey this moron. 'I wasn't expecting five-star hotel treatment', he exclaimed, maintaining his previous air of disgust, 'but how do you expect me to work now? I've not slept in days, I'm starving hungry… and I would really like to be able to wash.'

This was an honest plea. Nigel didn't mind a bit of superficial dirt, particularly if Sydney thought he looked 'manly,' as she once told him. Nevertheless, he hated being really dirty. His hands were ingrained with dirt from scrambling in the bushes by the airport and other such mishaps, and his bruised face felt cold and clammy. He severely doubted there was running water in the guarderobe.

'Please', said Nigel grudgingly.

The larger man looked him up and down. His captive certainly did look a bit of a mess. His face was very pale, almost ashen. There were grey rings forming underneath his eyes, and the purple-red mark on his cheek looked particularly nasty. 'I suppose you were somewhat prettier when we started with you,' he leered. Nigel felt decidedly uncomfortable.

'Well, okay, kid' said Bately, suddenly more congenial. 'If you want a sleep, you'd better have it now. If you wake up, get started on that book. I'll see what I can do about the rest.'

'That's terribly gracious of you,' said Nigel sarcastically. He did not want to sound too enthusiastic, even though he desperately wanted what only this man could provide. 'Please don't call me kid. I'm a lot older than I look.'

'Are you, indeed. How interesting,' smiled Bately. Then he went to the door and left, turning a key in the lock behind him. Too exhausted to think of escape right then, Nigel collapsed onto the mattress and fell asleep.

**Things will get better soon, I promise! Please review and thanks for reading.**


	8. Chapter 8: the plot thickens

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Warning: this is quite a dark chapter. But things may be getting lighter from here on...**

Nigel didn't know how long he slept for, but he doubted it was very long. When he awoke it was still light outside and, to his dismay, no food or water had been forthcoming. He still felt very tired, but he dragged himself over to the book on the windowsill. It seemed he would have to earn any slight comforts on offer.

Kneeling before the window, using the scant light coming through the arrow slit, he began to read. The first page was straightforward enough, containing the following words:

'This is an honest account of the passionate life of I, Emma, Lady Hamilton, now known once again as common Emmeline Hart, which I spent with the greatest hero of our age, and love of my life, Admiral Lord Nelson. Although I am now reduced to a beggarly state, I do not and shall not, for as long as I live, regret any of the acts in my long and now desolate life, for all was meant to bring me to him. I swear this, so God is my witness.'

Nigel, distracted from his hunger, was curious. Something about the text was slightly inauthentic. It was certainly a page turner, as one amorous encounter after another was detailed before his eyes. There were sentimental embraces, and long, unrestrained kisses told with such artless grace that they could not but imagine himself in similar situations, with Sydney, of course, playing the role of the infatuated Lady Hamilton.

After a while, Nigel realised what was wrong. There was no sense of time or place. Lady Hamilton was a woman who traveled the world and met the most distinguished people of her age. She first encountered her beloved Nelson in Naples when her husband was the ambassador there, hob-nobbed with the king and queen, and then returned to England, standing in the shadows as her lover received acclaim for his battle victories.

Some of these details, and others, were hinted at, but the book contained nothing that wasn't common knowledge after the event. The richest, most convincing portrayals were of timeless, erotic trysts. This could be a description of any two lovers, anywhere. Even the writing itself did not even seem be of quite the right period. Surely this was a fake?

However, fraud or not, the work did contain evidence of a hidden code. While most of the book read remarkably freely and easily, on every other page, there was a clumsily constructed sentence, in which one word in particular did not fit in. He picked out the misfit words and placed them together, in order.

The words were familiar. Nigel stared at them from few minutes and then remembered where they came from. It was the first verse of a poem which he'd studied at A-level English. It was by a Victorian versifier whose name he forgot, all about a poor, deserted woman, wretched like poor Lady Hamilton but who, instead of turning to drink, committed suicide. He put in the punctuation, so the words made sense:

'One more unfortunate, weary of breath, rashly importunate, gone to her death.'

'That clinches it then', thought Nigel. 'The book's a sham. That poem wasn't written until 1819, four years after Lady Hamilton died. 'But why does it still contain this message? Could it still lead to something, even to the locket?' Nigel pondered hard for a minute. What was the title of that wretched poem? Did it refer to a place? Then it struck him: it was called 'Bridge of Sighs.'

At this moment of revelation, the door opened, and in came Bately. In one hand he had a tray with a bowl of something on it, a piece of bread, and a bottle of water. In the other hand he had a bucket, containing soap and water, and over his arm he had what looked like a clean shirt. He had no free hands with which to lock the door behind him. Seeing this, Nigel's heart lurched. Was this his opportunity to escape?

Unfortunately, Bately's hands were not full for long enough for Nigel to make a run to the door from the other side of the room. Almost immediately, the henchman put down the tray, and bucket, on the floor. However, he still did not bother with the key. 'All I have to do is distract him from minute, and get between him and the door,' thought Nigel.

'What are you staring at?' said Bately, casually. Nigel had been looking at him very intensely.

'Your ridiculous hair,' came Nigel's quick retort, referring to the large mans long, blond locks. 'Is it the 1970s original, or a cheap imitation?'

'Very funny,' said Bately, unperturbed. 'You are hardly in a position to criticise my grooming, now, are you? But you still look a cute little thing... I like the ruffled look '

Nigel jumped up, but realised this was not a moment he could run for the door. Bately was just waiting for him to try something. He also hated the current topic of conversation, and where it might lead. He sidled over, picked up the bucket of water, and headed into the small guarderobe.

Bately tossed in the shirt, which was an unattractive shade of pastel purple, behind him. 'I thought you'd smell nicer in this,' he added, suggestively.

Nigel was extremely unhappy about his unwelcome visitor hovering in the outer chamber while he washed his face and hands, changed his shirt, and attempted to tidy up his hair. However, he also did not want his jailer to leave the room and lock the door. He said nothing and, as he both hoped and feared, Bately stayed.

Minutes later, he emerged cautiously back into his joyless bedroom. Bately looked at him and grinned. Nigel certainly looked cleaner, but no less pale and bedraggled. The shirt, several sizes too big, made him look very small. The glee on the bigger mans face at his captors apparent vulnerability was all too obvious.

'This was one of mine,' he mused, reaching forward to touch the shirt. This time, Nigel's rejoinder was a swift kick between his would-be tormentors legs, hitting home where it hurt the most.

Leaving Bately doubled up in pain, he hurtled straight for the door and yanked at the handle. It didn't open. 'Bloody hell!' he cursed out loud, and pulled again as hard as he could. He still had no luck. It obviously had some sort of self locking mechanism when it slammed. That was unfair! That shouldn't happen with an old castle door. It certainly wasn't an authentic 14th century lock!

Bately was recovering rapidly but Nigel hoped he still had time to try and grab the key out of his pocket. He lurched back at Bately, punching him in his side, and reaching into his pocket. He was lucky, the key was there, and he gripped it tightly. Unfortunately, the blow was not hard enough to prevent Bately seizing the hand with the key, and then the other, twisting them uncomfortably behind his back in order to make him drop it. In desperation, Nigel kicked backwards, trying to hit again the place where he'd had the most success. His aim was equally good, and he was able to wrench away his arms, and launch himself towards the door.

With a roar, Bately unfolded himself, and surged after Nigel, grabbing hold of his leg and tripping him. With the key in one hand, Nigel only had the other to break his fall, and he was unable to prevent himself smacking his forehead hard against the door. As everything went black again, Nigel thought ruefully to himself: 'Why didn't I just hit him with the bucket?'

………………….

When Nigel awoke this time, the first thing he saw was a familiar, but unwelcome face. Wildey, at least the man he still thought was Wildey, was leaning over him, looking mildly anxious and patting his uninjured cheek.

'Nigel, mate, are you with me?'

'Not if I can help it,' murmured Nigel, and shut his eyes again. Sometimes it was better not to wake up.

Wildey persisted in patting his cheek, forcing Nigel to open his eyes again and scowl at him. Uninvited, Wildey pushed his hand behind Nigel's neck and lifted up his head, saying 'Here, have some water. You'll feel better then.' He tipped a glass of water towards Nigel's lips. Nigel took a sip, almost gratefully, finding that his mouth was incredibly dry. After a second drop, though, his head hurt more than ever, and he pulled away, glad that to be allowed to flop back onto the mattress.

'Well done, mate,' said Wildey. 'Seems you and Mr Bately had a bit of a scuffle, eh? Careful, now. There's a cut on your forehead which is still bleeding. '

Nigel lifted his hand to confirm this, drawing it back spotted with blood. However, the last thing he wanted, feeling as he did, was sympathy from this conman.

He turned his face to look at his unlikely nurse. 'Let's cut to the chase Wildey. I've cracked your code. If I tell it to you, will you let me go?'

'Good God,' spurted Wildey, with amusement. 'I don't show who's more naïve, you or your dear Professor. Of course I can't let you go now. I _might_ free you when the locket is safe in my hands, and I've cleared out for another continent. Or I may not.'

Nigel narrowed his eyes. He had some suspicions to confirm. 'You're Bellimo, aren't you? You were never a historian, even a bad one.'

'My, you are entertaining, aren't you? You're nearly as exquisite a delight as your lovely superior. My, she and I have had some fun together over the last twenty-four hours.'

Nigel wanted to grab the man by the collar and shake him until his teeth rattled, but the best he could do was prop himself up on his elbows and stare him straight in the face. 'You've been with Sydney? If you've hurt her…'

'Now, where have I been hearing this before? Why don't you two just tie the knot and get it over with… not that you can do that right now, though, can you?' Nigel looked daggers. His face had gone from deadly white to pink with rage in a matter of seconds. 'So here's the gist of it. I have your Professor. She is locked in the basement of my house in Rouen. I will kill her unless you tell me where the locket is. If you can't tell me, I'll leave you here with my friend, and make the same offer to her. If you tell me wrong, I'll leave you here to die. If you tell me correctly, Sydney Fox goes free and I may be equally lenient with you. Tu comprend?'

'Exactly,' said Nigel, lying himself back again.

Staring intently at the ceiling, avoiding all eye contact, Nigel then spoke to Bellimo very deliberately: 'The locket is hidden under the Bridge of Sighs. It's in Venice.'

'Good boy.' Nigel cringed. Bellimo patted him on the shoulder, rose and left the room.

………………

The moment the door had shut behind him, Nigel gingerly pulled himself to his feet, fighting against the excruciating pain in his head. The food which Bately had bought in earlier was still there. Although feeling slightly nauseous, he forced himself to eat it. He needed his strength.

Immediately afterwards, he made his way into the water closet. 'Time for plan B,' he thought.

With all his strength, he pulled at the stone seat on top of the guarderobe. At first it didn't shift, but after two or three attempts it ground forward. After a few more tries, he had to jump back as it clattered to the floor loudly, just missing his foot. He prayed nobody heard. Underneath was a gap just large enough to somebody his size, and no larger, to crawl through. It didn't smell very inviting, but fortunately the guarderobe hadn't been used much in recent years. 'I'm coming Sydney', he thought desperately. He couldn't bear the notion of her locked up in a horrible basement, no matter what terrible things he had to go through.

He was about to squeeze his way down, when he heard voices from outside at the bottom of the keep.

'I'll call you from Venice,' he heard Bellimo say. He was obviously leaving Nigel solely in Bately's charge again, giving his escape plan even more impetus.

The car pulled away, and Nigel hoped that Bately had gone back inside and was not coming up to check on him immediately. Headfirst, he eased his way down the small tunnel. It ran diagonally down to about two meters. Then Nigel came face-to-face with a sheer drop down. Fortunately he was only one story on to the top of the steps. To his relief, he could see nobody about.

He lowered himself down slowly, until he was dangling by his fingertips. He then dropped the distance, barely two meters, onto the top of the steps. As he landed, the world swam for a moment. He thought he might lose his balance, but sheer willpower stopped him from tumbling. Fighting against the throbbing in his head, he darted down the steps and straight out through the gates. Then, veering off the path for safety, he plunged his way into the woods.

**Is a reunion between Nigel and Sydney on the cards? It looks likely…**

**Thanks for reading.**


	9. Chapter 9:a kiss at last

**Disclaimers: as before.**

Cate and Sydney had been searching their target region, in the south of France, for three hours. Research had revealed that there were dozens of deserted, ruined castles in this area, most of which were tucked away on hilltops and difficult to get to. Sydney was not surprised. She knew this region had been fought over throughout the middle ages. Nevertheless, she was dismayed when she realised that, without any more leads, they were going to have to investigate each one.

Inquiries in the local villages and countryside about any of the castles turned up dozens of 'red herrings.' It seems that everybody, particularly visiting tourists, suspected that something dodgy was going on at each 'castle on the hill.' One set of English campers were convinced they had seen lamps glowing at night at a long neglected chateau. They swore that mysterious lights could be seen approaching the ruin at dusk, and were sure they were on the brink of cracking an illegal counterfeiting operation, or something of the kind. When Sydney and Cate got to the site, however, it was quite apparent that nobody had been there for ages. There was no sign of a criminal gang, and no sign of Nigel.

Seven castles later, and after having been threatened with a shotgun by an irate local farmer for trespassing, Sydney was becoming more and more desperate. Cate, concerned as she was for Nigel, was also becoming concerned for Sydney. From her position behind the steering wheel of the car, she glanced over at her companion. Sydney's face was creased with worry.

'You must be shattered. Let me drive you to a local town with a hotel so you can sleep. I'll call for backup, somebody to help me carry on the search.'

Sydney half smiled. 'I'm fine, Cate. I don't feel tired. It's not like I've not existed for days before with no sleep. I can run on pure adrenaline, you know?' She paused and her smile faded. 'Then I was just looking for relics. Now I'm looking for something much more important.' Sydney dropped her head forward into her hand, and her voice faded to almost a whisper '…he's the most important thing in the world to me.'

Cate glanced across at Sydney again, narrowing her eyes. She knew Sydney loved Nigel, but she always assumed she had upon him as a friend, or younger brother. She had not seemed to bat an eyelid when she and Nigel had, briefly, been together. She wondered what the true purport of this statement was. Had anything changed between them? She desperately wanted to ask, but didn't want to distress Sydney any more.

'We should have a whole team on this, searching all the castles at once. We'll find him…and you need some sleep.'

'I'm okay,' said Sydney, straightening herself and gathering in her emotions. 'I couldn't sleep, anyway. I might as well be here… maybe you should call for backup, though. There are still so many castles to be searched.'

Sydney had initially rejected the suggestion that Cate should get ' her people' out to all the castles in the region, worried that Bellimo, or one of his people, would realise what was going on and take drastic action. Now she relented, on the condition that Cate only asked the best agents, who would not mess anything up. Sydney hated things being out of her hands. Cate promised that these were highly trained professionals.

'We plough on, then,' stated Sydney, all of this agreed. She took over the driving as Cate made the appropriate phone calls.

The two women were now fast approaching the next chateau. Dusk was beginning to fall. They could see their destination, known as Chateau de Baron Valende, up on the hill, silhouetted against a startling, pink sunset. Sydney could tell it was much more substantial than any of the shattered structures they had ticked off their list. She felt a lump in her throat and wished that they had known to come here first.

Professor Fox swerved off the road onto the track which led to the castle, not curbing her speed despite the roughness of the surface. Cate looked aghast at Sydney as both women were jolted around roughly, and hoped they wouldn't get a puncture. Sydney stared straight ahead, her face set in grim determination. Then astonishment flashed in her eyes and her foot smashed on the break. She was out of the car before Cate had even laid eyes on the figure that had blundered from the trees, and collapsed to his knees by the side of the road.

……………….

Nigel had half run and half tumbled through the coarse undergrowth of the woods, which covered much of the side of the hill. Realising that he was now approaching flat ground, he found it incredible that he hadn't broken any bones on his desperate journey. Scratched by bushes and stung by nettles, however, he was grateful to see the track and thought he could risk following it to the public road. He had not heard the car coming up it before he had left the obscurity of the trees.

When he saw the lights of the vehicle as it approached him in the half-light, his will nearly broke. 'It must be Bellimo coming back,' he thought, and then his fear grew as he remembered what he had told the villain earlier. Maybe he thought he had…lied to him? Nigel wanted to flee, but he was drained of energy, his head was killing him. There was nothing left in the tank with which to outrun anyone. His legs gave in just before his spirit did.

'Nigel!'

When the long, slender and gentle arms enveloped him, he thought it must be a dream.

'Oh my God, what have they done to you?'

With one arm still wrapped about his shoulders, Sydney gently lifted Nigel's chin up and looked into his face with alarm. His forehead was smudged with blood, which had come from a gash just above his hairline. The bruise on his cheek was still scarlet and angry. His pallid skin emphasised his grey-blue eyes, which for a moment stared at her vacantly.

'Nigel, I'm going to kill whoever…'

Sydney was abruptly silenced as Nigel flung both his arms tightly around her and plunged into a deep, reckless and passionate kiss. Cate stood by the car, transfixed. When Nigel finally released the object of his desire, the Interpol agent felt slightly dejected. 'He never kissed me like that,' she muttered.

For the moment, the whole memory of the previous, terrible twenty-four hours had been smothered out of Sydney. She was taken aback, panting for breath, and immensely excited.

'Nigel, I never knew you could… kiss like that.'

'I read it in a book,' said Nigel, and collapsed backwards onto the grass verge, utterly spent.

…………………….

As Cate eased the car at the end of the track, Sydney was too concerned for Nigel to notice that, from a distance, they were being watched. From the battlements of the keep, a rather apprehensive Bately was making a phone call to Bellimo, as he strained to watch them drive off into the half-light. On hearing the news, his boss, who had driven barely half an hour up the road, crashed on his brakes with an enraged curse. Should he go to Venice now? Or should his priority be to track the progress of two women and a man who were currently heading up the road towards him in a small, blue-grey car?

……………………

'I'm fine, Sydney. Really, the bruises are just superficial. Nothing that bad happened…. I escaped, didn't I?'

Sydney, sitting next to Nigel in the backseat of the car, was too preoccupied to hear the hint of pride in his voice.

'You should see a doctor, just in case. You're probably suffering from concussion, at the very least.'

Nigel sighed, and looked down into his lap. 'You think that's why I….I kissed you?' he said in an undertone, not intended for Cate to hear. 'You think it was just because I'd gone a bit funny in the head?'

'No!' whispered Sydney quickly. Then she paused. 'I liked it…,' she intoned deliberately. 'I just wasn't really expecting it.'

'Oh,' said Nigel softly. He glanced away, out of the window.

Sydney unfastened her seatbelt and shuffled across the back seat so that their bodies touched, and put her arm around Nigel's shoulder. Nigel froze for an instant, and then snuggled into her, resting his head on her shoulder.

'I really liked it,' said Sydney, caressing his hair gently. 'It was nice…'

'Great,' thought Nigel. 'Friends, not lovers, kiss 'nicely.' That was the least 'nice' kiss he had ever given, and still it didn't seem to work! He shut his eyes and said nothing.

'Damn,' thought Sydney. 'Is that _really_ what I wanted to say?'

So preoccupied were they with these thoughts, and Kate with desperately trying to overhear them, none of the occupants of the car paid much attention when a large, black BMW pulled out of a side turning and began to follow them, at a distance, up the road towards Nimes.

……………

Cate had called her team and the French police, and they'd raided the castle as soon as possible. They were in luck, to the extent that most of the stolen works of art and antiques were still there. Only a few of the more portable pieces had been quickly loaded up in a van and taken by Bately when he left. Another team were dispatched to Venice, to try and apprehend Bellimo.

A trip to the doctor for Nigel confirmed that his injuries were only slight but that he should 'take it easy' for a day or two. Then he, Sydney and Cate booked into a hotel. It wasn't really Sydney and Nigel's responsibility to catch an international crime lord but, having come so far, did they want to continue their search for the relic? Moreover, if the book was not written by Lady Hamilton, would it really lead to anything worth finding ?

The trio considered this over dinner.

'I've a feeling it still might reveal something,' said Sydney. 'After all, it looks like poor Lady Hamilton never got her locket back before she died, broken-hearted. It was probably one of the things that drove her over the edge…'

'I agree,' said Nigel. 'That book was fake… but it also had a purpose. Maybe it was written by the person who stole the locket, who felt guilty and wanted to hide it, but not have it lost forever?'

'That's exactly what I'm thinking,' said Sydney with a grin. Things felt back to normal… almost.

A phone call from Karen, who had been following the investigation into the murder of Dr Tadman, ignited their curiosity further. From inquiries made of his colleagues it had been revealed that he, indeed, had been working on the book. He was hoping that it would salvage his career. Tadman had been suffering from writer's block, and had made no great historical discoveries for ages. He drank too much, and many in his field said he had completely lost his touch. On the verge of an inglorious retirement, for which he had saved very little from his early success, the disclosures he was going to make from the Hamilton text were his last chance. He was very excited about it. Not only would it reveal the private life of one of England's greatest heroes, but he was convinced it would also lead to the whereabouts of the legendary _San Josef_ Diamond.

A week ago, however, he had been struck by a terrible thunderbolt. Another historian, a friend, to whom he had shown the book and his work, told him that the book could never have been written by Lady Hamilton. Tadman had been beside himself, but he had muttered something about how 'it would still lead to the diamond, and that it was going to save him.' Then he had vanished. The next thing that was known of him was when his body was discovered in Rouen.

'Tadman must have gone to Bellimo for money, then,' said Nigel. 'He wanted someone to help him find the diamond, and then find him a buyer at the highest price.'

'I bet he never knew what price he would have to pay,' said Sydney. 'So,' she looked straight at Nigel, 'Do you still want to find the thing, go to Venice with Bellimo on the loose?'

Nigel smiled, and his face lit up. 'Actually, if the locket exists, it's not in Venice.'

Sydney raised her eyebrows in curiosity.

'Well,' said Nigel, slightly embarrassed. 'Bellimo isn't the only one who can tell a convincing lie! There are two bridges known as the Bridge of Sighs. The one in Venice, is the one usually thought of, but the poem is about the other one…'

'Waterloo Bridge!' said Sydney with recognition, 'of course!'

'So we can leave catching the bad guys to, err,' he glanced at Cate, 'you, if you don't mind, and we…' here he paused, glanced at Sydney, and then quickly away again, 'could take those few days in London, after all?'

Sydney laughed, and Nigel watched as her silky, black hair shook slightly and shimmered in the light. God, she was beautiful! Cate graciously made her excuses and left before Sydney gave her answer.

'Alright, then... it sounds fun. Maybe if we do find the locket, we might find out who stole it and wrote that fake book.'

Sydney was honoured with one of Nigel's most winning grins. It made her glow inside, making her wonder if she had always felt that way when he smiled at her, or whether it was something new.

Maybe if she hadn't been musing about this, her suspicions may have been aroused by the woman at the next table. The said person rose from her unfinished meal as soon as their conversation had ended, and walked urgently out into the hotel lobby to make a phone call to a certain Mr Bellimo.

**Thanks for reading. I know there's quite a few of you out there, as I've been getting a guilty pleasure from watching my stats tickover. Don't be shy - please review! Katy. **

**Oh, and hi to Tanya...thanks!**


	10. Chapter 10:rain again

**Disclaimers: as before.**

Just after 2 p.m. the next day, found Sydney and Nigel progressing by foot along the south bank of the Thames in the direction of Waterloo Bridge. On the brink of discovering another lost relic, everything appeared to be back to normal.

Nigel, as much as he was grateful that his experiences of the last couple of days were over, was frustrated by Sydney's 'business as usual' attitude. It wasn't that she hadn't been sensitive to whether he was suffering any physical or mental after-effects of the kidnapping. In that department, she was almost over-attentive. However, what had passed between them immediately following his liberation seemed to have completely evaporated from her memory.

Striding along purposefully, she responded to any suggestion that they stop for coffee, or something stronger, by saying there would be time afterwards. Nigel was as keen to find the relic as anyone. Nevertheless, he was also sure that if, in half an hour, his boss had the locket in her hand, half an hour beyond that she would be donating it to the British Museum, or the V&A. Then she would be twitchy to get back to the United States, or onto the next hunt. He desperately wanted her to pause for a moment. There was something he needed to say to her. Moreover, he wanted to say it to her here, in London, before time and life had flown too far on.

Then it started to rain, very hard.

'It's only rain, Nigel!' said Sydney, as he suggested they took shelter.

'I know its only rain; its London rain. Its God's way of telling highly stressed natives to stop running about like headless chickens and sit down for a bit. Of course, this doesn't normally work… as a rule; we just carry on and get wet. Personally, I love being soaking wet…'

'Okay, Nigel. I get the message.' They were passing a small wine bar that overlooked the walkway and the river, where they ducked in quickly. Sydney commandeered a table near the window, while Nigel ordered a large Pimms jug with two glasses.

Sydney looked over at her teaching assistant. He really was very good looking, she mused to herself. Her eyes scanned slowly up his body, pausing in places to appreciate his finer 'qualities'. She'd always enjoyed looking at him, but something had changed about him lately that she couldn't quite identify. It wasn't just the slightly shorter hairstyle, although she was certainly keen on that. What was it?

The bruise on his cheek was still very visible, but it didn't seem to be deterring the girl at the bar, who was flirting outrageously. Nigel was deflecting her advances with his usual stuttering politeness. When he turned to make his way over to the table with the drinks, the girl shot Sydney a curious glance. She wondered if Nigel had told her that they were together. The thought somehow pleased her.

'Well, this is lovely', said Nigel as he arrived with the drinks. He looked anxiously at Sydney, not letting his smile slip.

She beamed back at him.

'Its very nice,' said Sydney.

Nigel poured out of the drinks, retaining his now slightly awkward smile. He still wished that he didn't have to be so 'nice'.

Sydney knew he had to say something, but the best she could come up with was a rather lame, 'Nigel, are you alright?'

'I'm fine, Syd, its just…' Nigel paused and took a large gulp of Pimms. If he was going to say this, he was going to have to go the long way around to it. 'When I was stuck in the castle reading that…book…' Nigel took another large swig. 'Whether it was by Lady Hamilton or not… I couldn't help thinking how wonderful it would be if… I mean, how wonderful it was…. when two people felt so…at one.' Nigel drained his glass and reached for more.

'You mean they had wonderful sex!' Sydney laughed, and then felt strangely guilty at her response.

'No! Well, I mean, yes… but there was more to it than that. There was…' Nigel downed half of the next glass of Pimms. Sydney had never seen him drink at such a rapid pace before. He was obviously incredibly nervous, but she was unsure what to say to appease him. She well knew where he was heading, and that she ought to gently deflect his advances, but she didn't want to upset him. Or was there another reason?

Nigel continued. 'The book conveyed such a sense of… passion, and love… and then the sheer desolation of being apart. I felt that…. ' Nigel lifted his glass for another comforting sip, but was stopped when Sydney gently placed her hand on his, pulling it back down to the table. He released his glass and grasped her slender fingers.

'I felt that I wanted to feel that way about somebody… and for them to feel it in return.' Nigel let out a deep breath and, for the first time since he sat down, looked directly into Sydney's eyes.

Sydney's mind was in flux. Practically for the first time in her life, she didn't know quite what to say to a man making a pass at her. While her brain was searching for a mild brush-off, her heart was telling her something rather shocking. She smiled awkwardly.

' Nigel, I…'

At that moment, mainly to her relief, Sydney's cell phone rang. Nigel released her hand, and slumped back in his chair as the professor reached into her bag.

'Hello? Oh, hi Cate!'

The bright look on Sydney's face faded as she listened to what Cate had to say. The gist of it was that Interpol and the French police had not been able to apprehend Bellimo, either in Venice or elsewhere. There was no trace either of him, or Bately. Cate feared that they had found out that Nigel lied and were instead on his and Sydney's trail, to find the locket, and for revenge.

There was little that they could do about that dilemma but be vigilant. Cate, despite Sydney's reservations, said she would send out an agent to keep an eye on them as soon as possible. However, the second piece of information that Cate conveyed prompted more immediate action. Mrs. Tadman, the murdered academics mother, had just arrived back in London, having made an unhappy trip to France to identify her son's body. She had known little about his recent actions, but had admitted that it was her who gave the historian the book that led him to his sad fate. The bereaved mother had then expressed a desire to see Sydney Fox, and Cate had told her that the professor and her assistant would be heading for Waterloo Bridge this afternoon. Mrs. Tadman had insisted on meeting her there, and was probably waiting at the bridge now, in the rain.

'Come on, Nigel, we've got to go,' said Syd the moment she hung up. The relic hunter was out of the wine bar door before Nigel had drained the last of the Pimms jug, which he had been steadily working on throughout the phonecall.

'It cost me a week's wages. I might as well get my moneys worth,' he grumbled as he rose to follow her. He promptly collided with the flirtatious waitress, who had come to clear the table, two other punters and another table as he headed for the exit. Nigel was still apologising profusely, and slightly drunkenly, as the door slammed behind him.

………….

The rain had eased. Sydney Fox, with her assistant trailing her at a sporadic distance, headed straight to Waterloo Bridge, a swift 10 minutes walk away. When she arrived, amidst the usual traffic and pedestrians she saw an elderly woman dressed in a green raincoat with a purple floral headscarf. The woman's eyes were slightly red and damp, and Sydney guessed that this was the woman who wanted to see her, still in an emotional state after the murder of her son.

'Mrs. Tadman? I'm so sorry about your loss,' said Sydney, instantly sympathetic and ingratiating.

'Professor Fox?'

Sydney smiled, and proffered two hands, which the elderly woman took. 'Thank you so much, Professor', said the elderly lady. 'He was a silly boy in the end, but I loved him.'

'The men who did that terrible thing will be caught, I promise,' said Sydney.

'That's a small comfort, dear, but it won't bring him back,' the woman paused, dabbing her eyes with a hanky. 'Its not what I wanted to see you about, though,' she continued, in a slightly shaky voice. 'In a way, I feel responsible for his death. I was entrusted with that book, on the condition that I promised that it never left the female line of our family. By giving it to my son, and breaching my vow, I think I must have brought a curse upon him.'

At this point, Nigel finally caught up and Sydney introduced her assistant.

'Nice to meet you, and… condolences. I'm sure your son was a great historian.' He hastily offered a hand, which the old woman civilly took, looking slightly sheepish.

'I'm terribly sorry, young man,' she said, 'but would you mind if I spoke to the professor in private. This is a matter that I would like to keep between us women.'

'Fine!' said Nigel, and then worried he'd sounded too abrupt. Backing away, he gave an explanatory monologue: ' I mean, of course, there are some things which are, err, women's issues…. rather not hear them, anyway…. not that they're bad, of course… just going!' Nigel turned away, and gazed embarrassedly off down the river in the direction of St Paul's.

Mrs. Tadman continued: 'the book, as I said, was entrusted to me by my mother, who was given it by her mother before her. It originally belonged to my great, great grandmother. This forebear of mine was a very beautiful woman, but she was also a foolish one. She fell madly in love with a man who had loved, although not with his heart, many women. This bad man was also a master thief. He apparently stole many valuable artifacts - jewellery mainly - from all over Europe.'

'She broke her heart?' asked Sydney.

'Not in the way you think.' The elderly woman continued. '_She _also enchanted _him_. He adored her in a way that he had never thought was possible with the many other women he had known. Under each other's spell, they both made mistakes.'

'What kind of mistakes?'

'She became a thief as well. She loved him so much that she could not see that that way of life was wrong. The deluded woman wanted to steal him an ultimate prize, as a token of her undying affection. They were hiding in Calais at the time and, in a godforsaken drinking spot, she came across a wretched, wasted woman, who she was told, by whisperers, was the notorious Lady Hamilton. She wiled her way into her trust and was invited back to poor Emma's pathetic lodgings. She waited until her prey succumbed to the inevitable effect of alcohol, and then robbed the deserted soul of the most precious jewels she had left. She then returned and presented her love with her prize: the locket.'

Sydney was utterly absorbed. 'Please, go on,' she requested.

'The villain, it seems, was impressed. To return her gesture of affection, he undertook the most daring robbery he had ever attempted. It was too daring, even for he. He was caught, tried and executed. Heartbroken, and in fear, my great-great-grandmother hid the locket. Then years later, after her daughter, my ancestor and the child of the thief, was old enough to fare for herself, she threw herself to her death from this very bridge, a broken woman. Her story, and this mysterious book which was somehow connected to it, remained her tragic legacy to our female line. Then when I realised my son had fallen upon hard times, I gave it to him. I thought the book might save his career, especially if he traced the locket through it.'

'Did you know that your great-great-grandmother, not Lady Hamilton, probably wrote the book?'

'I suspected so…but being a silly, superstitious fool, I did not dare to tell him the whole story about the family connection. Charles, my son, was so convinced it was Lady Hamilton's that I didn't have the heart to tell him my doubts. Then it was too late.' Mrs. Tadman wiped away some more tears. ' So, I'm here to make amends. I thought I might be able to help you find the locket, and place it in a museum.'

'Any help would be appreciated, Mrs. Tadman. Have you any idea where your ancestor hid the locket?'

'Well, the young woman at Interpol told me your suspicions about the code and the bridge, which triggered a memory. My mother once showed me an engraving on an arch under the bridge, which she said were made by my great, great grandmother. It was some carved initials, but not those of any one of our family. It made little sense then…'

'But now?'

'The initials were E.H. but I can't quite remember where they were…'

At that moment, the two women heard an excited shout.

'Sydney!' It was Nigel's voice, not far off, but Sydney couldn't see him. She leaned over the bridge.

Nigel was standing below the bridge on the muddy bank of the Thames, his feet among the flotsam and jetsam, waving his arms frantically.

'Sydney, I found something. Down here!'

'Coming, Nigel!' She turned to Mrs. Tadman, ' I think my assistant's discovered a clue, maybe the initials. I need to go down and help.'

'Sydney!' Nigel's voice came again, this time marked with panic, rather than excitement. Sydney ran to the edge of the bridge. Nigel was gone, and was replaced by the smiling and charmless figure of Bellimo.

'You better come down here quietly, my sweet,' he cooed. 'Otherwise, all you're going to find is your friends dead body.'

**Thanks for reading, and thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far.**

**The final installment will be up this weekend.**


	11. Chapter 11: showdown

**Disclaimers: as before.**

**Thank you to everybody who has reviewed so far.**

If the drop had been just a little less, Sydney would have vaulted right over the bridge in her haste to pound her enemy senseless. As it was, she rushed off at a frantic pace to find a way down, leaving a rather confused Mrs. Tadman calling after her, 'Is everything all right, my dear?'

Finding some small steps, not far off, Sydney bolted down onto the muddy beach back towards the bridge.

She didn't like the look of the situation she discovered. Underneath the first arch of the bridge, out of sight to the passers-by on the embankment, stood Bellimo, hands on hips and looking incredibly smug. Next to him was a large man with lank, long blonde hair, a big grin and Nigel firmly in his grip. One muscled arm was fastened tightly around her assistant's neck. With the other hand, the thug held a gun to Nigel's head. Tethered to the far side of the arch, where the flow of the river reached, was a speedboat, with the engine prepped and running.

'Sorry, Syd,' wheezed Nigel, clawing at his captors arm. If anything, he looked more embarrassed and guilty than frightened.

Sydney racked her brain for a good plan, glancing about for anything that could aid her. Nothing sprang instantly to mind. 'Okay, Sydney, go with the flow?' she thought uncertainly to herself.

'Let him go, Bellimo. I'll get you the locket, and you can leave.'

'Not good enough, Miss Fox,' replied her adversary. 'You have made me look a fool, which is something I hate. Your young friend here, on the other hand, has not only made me look a fool by escaping, but he also _lied _to me and has cost me millions in the sale price of some of my most valuable items.'

'Yeah, I'm proud of him. Now let him go, you bastard.'

'I killed Tadman for causing me far less trouble! No, he doesn't get away with it that easily. He's coming with me until I have been recompensed for all the stock that I lost.' Tadman paused and nodded slowly. 'Yes, that's your job, my little vixen. I want you to do what you do best, find relics, but find them for me. I'll keep him alive until I'm satisfied I've got back more than I lost, then I _might _let him go.'

'Syd!' Nigel had forgotten his embarrassment, and now just looked plain scared. Sydney glanced in his direction, trying to pass him an encouraging vibe. With the henchman's gun pressed against her assistants' temple, she dared not try anything yet. The glare she subsequently gave Bellimo was drenched with pure hatred.

'What you want me to do,' said Sydney, sourly.

'Well, there's an offer!' Bellimo was clearly enjoying himself. 'Let's start with this damned locket. We won't include it in the overall payback, of course, but it might ensure that Nigel here is relatively well treated until you start on your real work.'

'Fine', said Sydney. It dawned on her that she might be able to make an opportunity of this. 'If you could release my assistant…'

'Uh, uh,' said Bellimo, waggling his finger. 'Bately, here, likes to keep hold of him.'

Sydney could see that. Nigel was now held so tightly against Bately's body, that he was choking for air. The vicious grin on the gunman's face had remained throughout the whole proceedings. She had to get Nigel away from that guy.

'Surely it's obvious that he knows more about this relic than I do? You've got to let him speak, at least.'

Bellimo nodded, and Bately loosened his hold. Nigel took a gasp of air, coughed and then said huskily, 'Syd, Emma Hamilton's initials, they're carved on one of the stones of the arch, over there.' He indicated with a slight movement of his hand to a stone, on the inside of the arch.

Sydney went over to the spot. At first she could see nothing among the mishmash of more modern graffiti but then, sure enough, she spotted the initials E.H, boldly carved into the stone itself. Using eyes and hands, she searched for some indication of a compartment near or behind them. There was no obvious lever, so she tried pressing the initials in several combinations of ways. Nothing. She then knocked on the stone. There was no hollow ring that indicated a hidden space behind.

'There must be something else,' she turned and looked Bellimo directly in the eyes, trying to conceal her contempt. 'Please, I really need Nigel's help over here.'

'Hmm,' said Bellimo, clearly toying the idea over. 'Please,' said Sydney ' I can't do this alone.'

If the master criminal had noticed that, when saying the words ' I can't do this alone', Sydney had looked directly at Nigel, he might not have relented. However, at that moment he also had turned his attention to the man he now regarded as the cause of all his troubles. Nigel had barely moved since Bately loosened his grip, apart from attempting, only partially successfully, to inch his body away from Bately's. His eyes were darting rapidly between Sydney, and the hated Bellimo.

'He looks suitably terrified', thought Bellimo. 'Surely he knows better than of to try anything now?'

'Okay, Bately, let him go to her. If they try anything, shoot them both.' Bately's lip curled in disgust, but he obeyed his boss. He relinquished his prey by giving him a hefty shove in the direction of Sydney. As before, Nigel slipped forward and lost his balance. He landed with a splat on his hands and knees, covering both he and Sydney with spots of grey-brown mud.

Sydney didn't flinch as her stylish, black clothes were desecrated. 'Sorry,' whispered Nigel, as he shuffled in close to her. ' I mean, sorry about everything. I've let my guard down, again… I was a bit tipsy. Actually, I think I still am… ' He gave her a guilty half-smile. Sydney looked at him, curiously. He had looked sober enough a minute ago. Who wouldn't be? Now, however, despite the fact that their situation had improved very little, Nigel seemed strangely skittish, almost relaxed.

'There's nothing to be sorry about,' she whispered. Then she added in an even softer tone which their persecutors certainly could not hear, 'just don't do anything silly. Follow my lead.'

'Shut up or he dies,' Bately stepped in right behind them and cocked the pistol, which was trained at the back of Nigel's head. Nigel swallowed hard, but still managed to give Sydney another awkward smile as a response to her instruction.

'Okay! We know,' snapped Sydney, in reply to Bately. ' Nigel, do you see anything conspicuous?'

Nigel surveyed the wall, from top to bottom. No clues were instantly forthcoming. Nevertheless, after a couple of minutes he spotted a compelling line of graffiti, right at the bottom of the wall. Scratched into the stone, the words weren't in keeping with the political sentiments, or the mindless prattle, of the rest. He ran his finger along it, indicating to Sydney. She read:

_Make no deep scrutiny_

_Into her mutiny_

Sydney guessed that it was another line from the poem that had led them to the bridge, and that Nigel recognised it. She looked at him quizzically, but he pursed his lips and gave an almost indiscernible shake of the head. He obviously didn't want to tell Bellimo he had made a breakthrough.

This pro-action by Nigel concerned Sydney. Surely he knew she would get them out of this? She was just waiting for an opportunity to make a move where _he_ wouldn't instantly be killed. She was all in favour of her teaching assistant using his initiative, as he often did. Right then, however, she would have preferred if he reserved it for when the stakes were less high and he was, well, less inebriated.

Nigel, however, missed Sydney's warning expression as he had turned to speak to Bellimo. 'Do you still have the book?'

'It's in the boat.'

'Can I see it? It might have a clue.'

Bellimo frowned, but after a moment agreed to get it. 'But if nothing comes of it,' he added, 'you and I, and your friend Bately, are clearing out and leaving your professor to get on with it.'

Nigel nodded. Bellimo waded out into the grimy shallows, and retrieved the book from the motorboat. Sydney anxiously searched for her chance, but Bately still had the gun aimed unwaveringly at Nigel. She just couldn't risk it.

Bellimo handed Nigel the book. Nigel gazed at its cover unseeingly for a second, and then turned to Sydney. 'I can't do this alone,' he intoned deliberately, then whispered a further three words so quietly that only Sydney, who could read his lips, could understand them: 'I love you.'

'Oh my God!' Sydney didn't vocalise her reaction, but her mind and heart were racing. She had no time to absorb the magnitude of his words. He was going to do something rash! She had to act quickly.

'Aaaaaaaaaaah' moaned Sydney, and fainted dramatically into the sludge.

'What the hell, woman?' Bellimo rushed to her side, his motivation anger rather than sympathy. At the same instant, the gun flew from the hand of his henchmen, smote from it by a large, 19th-century leather book, swung by Nigel with all his strength. Bately's attention had shifted to Sydney for just a split-second, and Nigel had taken his chance.

Sydney's thrusting, well-aimed kick caught Bellimo square on the jaw, sending him flying back into the dingy shallows with a splash. Nigel dived for the gun, and had his hands wrapped around tightly it when Bately hurled his not inconsiderable bulk straight on top of him. Nigel's breath was half knocked out of him and he felt a painful crunch in his ribs. He kept a desperate grip on the pistol, but could feel Bately's meaty hands prying his fingers away from it.

With Bellimo still floundering in the river, Sydney moved to propel herself into the fray. She was too late. Bately wrested the gun from Nigel, backhanded him across the face, and clambered to his feet. Sydney froze. The gun was aimed straight at her heart.

'If either of you move again, I pull the trigger.'

Nigel, lying at Bately's feet, realised that as he was one out of the gunman's sightline, he had the best chance of stopping him. But what could he do? He raised his eyes upwards, pleading silently for some divine intervention. In doing so, he became aware that, in their struggle, he and Bately had edged out from under the cover of the archway. They were quite visible to a little old woman who was leaning over the side of the bridge with a steely determined look on her face.

Mrs Tadman's weighty, fake leather handbag, projected with some force, hit Bately square on the top of the head. Nigel seized his legs, toppling him as he pulled the trigger in alarm. The bullet skimmed the edge of Sydney's sleeve, ricocheted off the bridge, and hit Bellimo in the middle of his right thigh.

The conman, who had just hauled himself from the river, let out a hoarse cry and fell back in the water with a splash.

Bately gaped in horror at his mistake. Before he had a notion what to do next, he heard the scream of sirens and the screech of brakes. The gun thudded dully onto the ground as the Metropolitan police poured down onto the dingy riverbank.

……………..

The scene of their nightmare, under arches of Waterloo Bridge, wasn't particularly a place to which Sydney Nigel wanted to return. However, there was unfinished business. At sunset that evening, after they had been checked in and checked out of both a police station and a hospital, they found themselves back in the very same spot.

Nigel relocated the words of the poem on the wall, guided by torchlight and the dimly flicking lamps of the embankment. 'Make no deep scrutiny, Into her mutiny,' he read to herself. 'What was she trying to say?'

'Not to think too hard,' said Sydney contemplatively. ' I doubt she's set any traps, or made any hidden compartment. This was a desperate woman, on the verge of ending her life.'

'Do you think she just buried it in the mud?'

'I think she might have. I'm afraid we're going to have to get dirty again.'

Nigel smiled resignedly. 'That's okay, Syd. Sometimes its fun getting dirty with you… I mean, well…you know what I mean!'

'I think I do, Nigel,' said Sydney with a wide-eyed laugh

They began to scrape away the mud underneath the verse with their hands. After a few minutes, by which time their clothes were as splattered as they had been earlier, Sydney struck what appeared to be the top of a small metal box.

Neither said a word. Their eyes glowed with excitement, and they shared knowing smiles.

Moments later, Nigel held the box in his hands. It was sealed with a delicate lock, which it was evident it would take little force to break.

'Are you going to open it, then?' said Sydney, expectant.

Nigel hesitated. 'When I first realised we could be on the trail of this relic, it… ignited something within me. Everything it stood for was exciting: passion, romance…love. More than anything, I wanted to find it… with you. '

With a crash of her heart, Sydney realised it was showdown time. There was little chance that anyone was going to come to her rescue. She was going to have to stop these embarrassing demonstrations that Nigel kept making to her, or she was going to have to… do what? She found that she didn't want to stop him, not yet.

'That was then, what about now?'

'I don't know', said Nigel slowly. 'What would it mean to you?'

'That's not fair,' Sydney thought, panicked. 'Why did Nigel seem to be the calm one?' She searched her heart for an honest answer, which, when it came to her, did not shock her as she thought it might. She gently placed her hands on top of his, as they grasped the box.

'I've known a lot of romance, Nigel, whatever it is, and I've certainly known far too much passion. But love…'

She looked up from the box and deep into Nigel's imploring eyes. ' I'm not sure I've ever really known what love is. And… if you want to find this relic with me, because you love me, then…'

'Then?' Nigel's voice was tinged with despondency.

'Then… you make me happier than I've ever deserved to be.'

The box dropped into the mud, forsaken once again, as they fell into each other's arms.

………….

The contents of the box, examined in the torchlight, did not disappoint. It was a veritable treasure trove, full of plundered jewellery from the 19th century and before. There was no mistaking Lady Hamilton's locket. It was truly beautiful, and the sparkle of the Diamond left no doubt that it was worth a great deal of money. On the back, it was engraved with its legendary title, _San Josef_. Inside there were two strands of hair. One was a sandy grey-blonde, and the other a raven black. They were clearly Nelson's and Lady Hamilton's. Sydney and Nigel did not touch them, agreeing that they should stay there, entwined together for all eternity.

One item, beyond the locket, excited Sydney and Nigel particularly. It was a ring, inscribed with the distinctive insignia of Marie Antoinette and inscribed in minute writing as being from her love, Count Ferson. They decided that Mrs Tadman's ancestor's lover had probably stolen it. He had, after all, been a master thief.

'What a coincidence,' mused Sydney. 'In the end, we found relics belonging to at least two sets of legendary lovers. ' By now, they had placed the little box safely in Sydney's bag and made their way out of the gloom and up onto the bridge. About a third of the way across, where the view down the river in the direction of St Paul's was finest, Nigel stopped and placed his hand gently on Sydney's arm.

'Syd… we've got to talk. Where do we go from here?' she let his hand slip up towards her back, until his arm encircled her shoulders and his fingers entangled themselves in her long, silky hair.

'Nigel, I've got to admit, I really don't know!' Sydney laughed affectionately.

Nigel gazed up towards the floodlit cathedral, and then back at the woman he adored. He thought about how he had wanted to show Sydney around London, so he could take the lead. Maybe this was the moment?

He had hesitated too long. Sydney hurled both her arms around her teaching assistant, crushing him to her body, and plunging into a deep, wild and amorous kiss.

'Ow! Mind my ribs… two of them are cracked already, remember?' moaned Nigel breathlessly, once he was allowed break off for air.

'Sorry,' said Sydney, 'you were very brave earlier,' she added.

'Yes, but you _know_ I was drunk,' replied Nigel. Sydney giggled, and was secretly pleased. She didn't want Nigel changed too much. He wouldn't be, well, Nigel. Still, she knew that he would always come through for her when she needed him.

'Well, as I said, I'm sorry.' She reached out and ran her fingers gently across his cheek. 'But I suddenly realised how much I wanted to kiss you.'

'I think the pain was worth it, then,' confided Nigel. 'It was wonderful. I hope there will be more?'

'Pain or kisses?' Sydney asked teasingly.

'With you, Syd, I've a feeling there is going to be a fair amount of both.' Nigel returned the kiss, with less force but no diminishment of intensity. Sydney senses flew to the moon and back.

Once released, she contemplated him in astonishment.'You really learnt that in the book?'

'It was inspiring,' confessed Nigel. 'Although, I added some of my own embellishments. I'm not sure I really want to kiss like a master criminal, anyway.'

'I've kissed, far too many crooks in my time,' said Syd, 'and I've kissed enough foolishly brave men who were ultimately cowards. Believe me, you kiss better… and, unlike them, I…think… I…'

Her voice faded out and she never finished the sentence. Instead, she held him closely and gently, so she could feel his warm breath against her cheek. Nigel didn't mind, and enjoyed the feel of her soft curves against his body. All in all, he decided, there had been enough change for one day.

**The end.**

**Thanks for reading. Please review and let me know which bits worked well and which didn't. I know it's a while since I posted this, but its still getting hits – if you're a late reader, please still review me! I'm planning a sequel.**

**Katy xx**


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